Through Ice and Fire (Exile)
by Meysun
Summary: After the sack of Erebor, Thror rages with Dragon-sickness, and Thrain has lost himself in madness and despair. It falls to Thorin to lead what remains of his people to safety. But the road to the Iron Hills is a long and terrible one - where Thorin will have to face himself, and try to survive.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N :** _Hello again dear ones! I am so sorry to do nothing but editing these past days. I promise I will start to write new things very soon._

 _Small note : in this part, Thorin has just turned twenty-four. In my own headcanon for Dwarven age, he's about twelve years in Human age._

 _Warning : these four chapters of Exile taking Thorin from Erebor to the Iron Hills are probably among the saddest and most gut-wrenching I have ever written. I know my fics often challenge your tear-production (yes, I love you too) - but this Part III and its four chapters are a coming of age. Thorin's. And mine, as a writer. I still recall the feelings they raised as I wrote them, and the clear, sharp apparition of Itô, and little Svali. It sounds terribly vain, but these are still the chapters I love most in Thorin's fic, the ones who never failed to make you react - the ones that flew so much easier than Thorin's life in Dunland, probably because they were written at a time where I, too, was struggling with "exile" and was saved by a wonderful friendship. I hope you will like those, and as usual, be thanked for (re)reading and take care! Much love, Meysun._

* * *

 **The King of Carven Stone : Part III**

 **Through Ice and Fire (Exile)**

 **1.**

 _Dís' weight upon my hip, the warmth of her body against me, fumes and fire and that voice – roaring and cracking like burning logs..._

" _Do not tell me you have not thought of doing it, Thorin son of Thráin."_

"Thorin, lad..."

 _We would all burn_.

Balin's touch on my shoulder was gentle, yet I jerked up, my breath short, my lips dry and my heart racing. I had reached for his wrist in an instinctive gesture, my nails digging deep into his skin, awakening the pain in my forearm.

He did not wince, he did not stir – he simply looked at me, his kind brown eyes full of grief and sorrow. And I knew then that it was no dream, no terrible nightmare. The Dragon had come, and with him fire and destruction – home and shelter were lost forever. I let go of Balin's hand, slowly.

I was still lying in the tent, Frerin and Dís stretched next to me. The Dwarflings were all asleep, except for a baby that was sitting in Itô's lap, sucking at her little finger, moaning slightly.

"I am so sorry, lad. You are needed."

I nodded, and freed myself from the embrace of the chestnut-haired Dwarfling – he was the one whose weight I had felt in my sleep, and he let out a groan when I gently laid him on the ground.

My bones were aching and my body felt stiff and bruised, but the worst was my arm. I closed my fingers upon the bandages and got up, silently, half-giddy with the pain but determined to get out without awakening anyone – they had strived enough, they deserved some rest, and the later they would wake up and find themselves deprived of everything, the better.

I followed Balin outside – it was still so dark, so silent... The air however was hot, and the river was covered with a film of ashes, its waters grey and turbid.

I looked at it, struggling to recognize the crystalline river in which Frerin and I had bathed so often, and I felt Balin's hand on my shoulder again.

"Your skin is burning."

He pushed back my damp hair, feeling for my cheek with the back of his hand, but I pulled away, staggering slightly.

"It's just the heat. You said I was needed..."

Balin nodded, and then he took my hand and led me away from the river, to what had been a clearing and was now an empty space with burnt, black pine-trunks. He was limping, and I frowned in concern.

"How is your leg, Balin?

\- Mending, lad."

He had answered with a wink, but I could see his jaw tighten as he walked, and slowed my pace, determined that he should not damage his leg further.

"Where are you going?"

Frerin's breathless voice echoed behind us and I turned. He looked battered, his hair dishevelled, his face pale and his eyelids still heavy with sleep, but his gaze was aware, bright and intent.

"To your grandfather. He has called a meeting – you might as well come too, we need every mind in this."

Balin had spoken with a sigh, but Frerin just nodded. He came up to me and linked his arm with mine, tightly – and it was when I caught his alarmed glimpse upon the soot-stained Mountain that I understood what he had feared.

"I'm not going back there, I promise...", I whispered.

Frerin nodded again, and I felt him relax slightly – I knew his body language so well... I gave him a little shove, and the ghost of a smile.

"You look terrible...", my brother said, and he earned another shove.

"You are not better."

I had answered quietly, because we were reaching the clearing and the assembly of Dwarves seated there. Balin overtook us, and suddenly I was glad, so glad that Frerin was there, right by my side, and that I did not have to face this meeting alone.

I could not see my father, there were only some elder Dwarves – two of Thrór's counsellors, three goldsmiths, Óin and Balin. And my grandfather.

He was sitting on one of the scorched trunks, his grey eyes bright and glaring, his mouth tight and his fists clenched. He seemed unable to keep his hands still though, flexing his fingers, stretching them, and balling them again. His face was pale and hard, and when he saw us arrive he snarled:

"About time. I was wondering when you would choose to wake up to deal with the issues we are have to face, thanks to your father's carelessness."

His words hit me full in the chest and I could only gaze at him, struck mute by his spiteful anger and the injustice of what he had just said.

"Do not be so harsh upon the boy...", one of the counsellors said, gently bending towards Thrór and raising his hand slightly to prevent me from answering.

"He has strived hard, and so has his brother."

Nár was the name of the Dwarf who tried to put in a good word for us – he was old, older than my grandfather, at least he seemed so to me because his grey hair was lighter than Thrór's. He had piercing eyes, though, emerald eyes that had lost none of their sharpness – I saw repressed anger in the gaze he cast upon my grandfather, and sadness in the lines of his face.

Thrór shrugged, suddenly indifferent, and we sat down on the ground, Frerin and me, close to each other, silent yet wary.

"So...", Thrór began briskly, and then he stopped – as if words failed him, as if he had forgotten what he had in mind.

He frowned, and then he gestured impatiently towards Nár.

"Tell them why we are here, Nár."

The elder Dwarf looked at the rest of us and I could see him hold back his grief and despair, searching for words my grandfather clearly could not find.

"The Mountain is lost", he began, struggling to keep his voice even. "We cannot stay here, and we will soon run out of food and supplies. We need to decide where to go, and how we can lead to safety those among us who are injured and weak."

His words echoed in the clearing, and my chest tightened painfully when I realised he had spoken those words looking straight at me, his gaze grave and sad.

"Nobody has to drink from the water", Óin intervened, temporarily saving me from answering. "It is full of ashes, and of poisoned fumes – we have to boil it first, I already told the women...

\- Then in Mahal's name boil it!", my grandfather growled, and I felt Frerin flinch next to me.

I reached for his hand and brushed his knuckles with my thumb, soothingly. His face was aghast and betrayed his fear – he was so young, so terribly young...

"Do not bother us with such details...", Thrór said, his voice thick with contempt. "We are talking of serious issues here."

Óin shook his head silently, and did not talk until the end of the meeting, his arms folded and his face closed – anger was clearly pouring from his body, but he managed to keep it down.

"I think we should head for the Iron Hills as soon as possible", Balin said calmly, his face gentle and thoughtful as ever.

"I was expecting that from you...", Thrór said, letting out a brief, cold laugh. "To you, the Iron Hills may look like home – the mines, the dust, after all, what else have you seen of the world...? But I shall not go there – who would want to soil his hands with iron, when we could have silver, gold, and even _míthril_...?

\- What do you mean, _uzbadê_?", Balin asked, and Thrór was probably the only one who did not feel the sharp, biting contempt in his last word.

"I mean we should reach for Khazad-Dûm, you fool. There are enough caverns and shelter for all of us, enough wealth to be found in the mines, and even a lake so that our dear friend here won't need to boil his water..."

My body had stiffened when he had insulted Balin, and tensed even more when I heard him abuse Óin. Surely this was not my grandfather speaking – some evil spirit had taken control of his mind, twisting his words so that they bit and hurt...

"Khazad-Dûm has fallen into darker hands. Udûn's Flame is roaming its depths – the gates of Moria are no more open to our people."

Balin had answered with the same even tone, and yet Thrór tensed.

"It was eight hundred years ago", my grandfather said, clenching his fists. "Do not tell me you are afraid of a mere myth – the shadow of a Balrog, really... It only serves to scare Dwarflings, just like that one, sitting here wide-eyed like a frightened doe!"

He had a depreciating gesture towards Frerin and this time I drew him against me, shielding him from my grandfather's gaze with a fierce, angry move.

"This is madness."

The deep, growling voice that put a final stop to my grandfather's ramblings belonged to Dagur – a tall, broad, fierce Dwarf whose face was deeply scarred from battle wounds. He was the one who taught us how to fight, Frerin, me and all the young Dwarfs, and he certainly was not one to rush blindly into pointless death – he knew the risks of battle and war too well.

"I am not leaving one Fire for another. I am not going to Khazad-Dûm, and never will. You keep your _míthril_ and your dreams of glory – they are not worth a copper coin to me."

Thrór glared at him, and yet he did not dare to challenge him – Dagur really looked too formidable, his blond hair stained with soot, his blue gaze proud and fierce.

"I am with Balin on this. Let's make for the Iron Hills – for the sake of the women and children, if not for ours.

\- I agree too", Nár said, and then he looked at me.

I was still holding Frerin, and held Nár's gaze for a second, before I finally said, in a voice that I desperately wanted to sound firm:

"I also think it is the wisest thing to do, grandfather. We have family here, they will help us and welcome us in these hours of need."

Thrór shook his head, his eyes narrowing.

"How naive you are. So you think they will welcome us, right? I will tell you what they will do – they will _rejoice_ to see us brought so low, they will smirk and chuckle to see us come to them like beggars, and I won't bear it, do you hear me? I won't bear it!"

He was clearly shouting now, and had risen from his sitting position, taking a menacing step towards me.

Dagur rose too, and this simple gesture was enough to stop Thrór. I slowly let go of Frerin, and then I stood up, facing my grandfather and the rest of the Dwarves.

"I will take everyone to the Iron Hills, if you won't do it, grandfather", I said, my voice resolute, even though my legs were shaking. "There is no other way, no other possible course."

Thrór opened his mouth – and seemed again at a loss for words. We faced each other for what seemed an age, before Balin's voice broke the silence.

"And what of supplies? We have very little – we will soon run out of food, and the journey is a long one."

We fell all silent again, and it was Frerin who spoke at last, rising slowly to his feet to stand next to me.

"We have to get to Dale. They are in need of help too – the attack on the City has been terrible, their houses are burnt to ashes. We are strong, we can help them to secure their remaining homes, and to bring their wounded to safety. If we help them, surely they will help us too... They are our allies, our friends..."

His voice was so unsure, he was so innocent, so gentle... And my grandfather laughed – a hard, mean, dreadful laugh.

"How my son could father such a weakling I do not know – but then, Thráin is a weakling too. He fled from the Dragon and left our Treasure to him, and you, you stupid, little...

\- Enough!"

My voice echoed in the clearing, causing some of the elder Dwarves to flinch. I had spoken fiercely, without restraint or respect, because I could not summon any in my heart, not after I had heard Thrór abusing my father, and my little brother who had so much more sense and goodness in him.

"It's alright, Thorin, I don't mind...", Frerin whispered, but I ignored him just as I ignored the incredulous glare of my grandfather.

My blood was racing, I felt its pulses in my chest and wrists, making me sweat – my back and armpits were soaked, and my face felt hot. I was so angry I was shaking, and I clenched my fists as I spoke.

"Frerin is right, it is the only thing we can do. We have no supplies, no food, no means to carry what we have left. We have to get to Dale – it is our duty, we swore to protect them. We have to help them, and ask for their help too, there is no other way – and you know it."

I had hurled those words at him, and then I just grabbed Frerin's arm and left – Thrór did not even _deserve_ to be spoken to, not in that mad, bitter and hateful state of mind.

I was walking quickly, with broad, angry steps, and Frerin struggled to keep up with me. I was still holding his hand, and it was when I heard a small, muffled noise that I slowed my pace and finally stopped to look at him.

He was crying, trying to stifle his sobs and to check his tears, but it was not in his nature to withhold his emotions, and when I dragged him against my chest his tears broke free. I placed my hand upon his locks, stroking his hair, trying to soothe him once more, and Frerin buried his face in my neck, still sobbing.

"He hates me, Thorin. He really hates me, because I am so weak. I am... I am not like you...

\- You are not weak", I said forcefully, pulling up his chin to make him look at me. "You are brave, and kind, and strong – never let anyone make you think you are not, because that's a lie."

I brushed his tears away with my thumbs, and Frerin drew a small, shaky breath, his sobs ebbing slowly.

"And thank Mahal you are not like me, otherwise I think we would have forgotten ourselves and slapped our mighty King..."

I had whispered those words with a half smile, and Frerin laughed, briefly, the pain of my grandfather's words temporarily forgotten. He wiped his eyes and let go of me, and it was then we heard loud, heavy steps heading towards us.

"I am with you on this...", Dagur said, boxing Frerin's shoulder.

My brother staggered slightly and Dagur grinned.

"Hold your ground, lad. You certainly don't lack ideas, behind that shiny face."

Frerin beamed and Dagur winked at me – he liked all of the Dwarflings, but had a soft spot for my brother, because Frerin was never hiding anything from him, confiding completely in him, even when Dagur would pin him down on the ground or make his wrists and shoulders hurt with his iron grips and hard blows.

Frerin was never afraid of strong people, the only thing that could unsettle him was malice... and madness. He never was the same with my grandfather after that day, and I could not blame him.

We left the camp shortly after, heading for Dale with a dozen of Dwarves, Dagur among them. I had asked Balin to stay at the camp – partly to rest his injured leg, but also because I did not want to leave my grandfather alone. He was not in his right mind, and after what he had said about my father I wanted to be sure that he would not get to him and harm him.

We reached the City as the morning sun grew warmer – or perhaps it was only because the fire raging there was barely quenched. The houses I had loved so much were maimed and scorched – their white marble had fallen to dust, and the gilded domes had all crumbled, adding more rubble to the streets, killing some of those who had dwelt under their golden tiles.

We entered Dale in silence, and with silence Dale's Men met us – not a word of reproach was voiced, they were too desperate, too hurt, too stunned. Their lord was dead – Girion had fallen from the watchtower, where he had tried to fight the Dragon. The tower was destroyed, and the lively, proud City-lord was no more.

His son was mourning him, they told us, and when we asked what we could do for them they just shrugged. But slowly, we managed to find out which part of the City had endured the worst of the attack – in which part it was still dangerous to walk, and where our skills would be welcomed. For we Dwarves are used to handling weights and levers, and know how to stop the stone from crumbling – the galleries and halls in our Mountains a daily proof of that talent.

That day we secured the stone walls of Men and put levers against their houses. We worked hard and in silence, thinking of the walls and galleries who had crumbled in the Mountain – of all the lives that had been taken, by smoke, fire, stone or lack of air.

And when the houses were safe enough to begin the search, we entered them. I wish I could forget what we found there – death and tragedy in every room. Crushed bodies, lifeless frames that had long finished bleeding. Children, women and men – none was alive, there was no one to save there.

I flinched when I heard Frerin moan, bent upon a tiny frame. My brother was stroking the hair of a child – a small, dark-haired girl that could have been Dís. She looked asleep but she was not, the strange angle of her neck told another story. She must have fallen from one of the houses storeys, breaking her spine and dying instantly – at least she had not suffered long, but that thought gave me no comfort.

"Lena...", Frerin whispered, his grey eyes empty as his gaze met mine. "Her name was Lena. She was my friend – she was afraid of the dark, and I made her a music box to help her fall asleep..."

He was not crying, this time – his grief was too strong, and it made my own throat tighten. Inwardly I wept, for that poor, little girl that would sleep forever now, for the fact that it could have been Dís, stretched motionless on the ground, and for my younger brother that should never have had to witness such a dreadful, meaningless death.

Frerin gently placed an arm around her shoulders, and another under her knees, and then he carried her out of the house. He held her close against his chest, his face pale but upright, and he walked up the street, slowly, respectfully, carrying her to the place the Men were watching their dead. And many were those who saw him walk – the young, golden-haired Dwarven prince who had once filled their places with their children's laughter, his mind full of stories and his hand full of toys. And they wept to see him like that, a child carrying another child, sharing their grief without a word – because there were no proper words.

Frerin laid down his small, frail burden close to the other bodies that were stretched here, and I heard him voice our prayer for the death, before he bent and kissed Lena's forehead.

It made my chest tighten and hurt with unshed tears and suddenly I was afraid to scream out loud – I could not watch this, I could not handle this, it was too awful... But I witnessed it, nonetheless, my body drenched in sweat, shaking with grief in the morning sun.

When Frerin came back I had taken my resolution. We would not ask anything of Dale's Men – it would be a disgrace, an insult to their grief that would only bring us lower than we already were. We had helped them to get to their dead kinsmen – dead because of the Fire my grandfather's greed had called upon them. And we had done so because it was right, not because we expected something in return.

I put a hand on Frerin's arm and looked at him. And my brother understood without a word.

"Let us go, Thorin...", he whispered, and I nodded.

We left that sad place then, facing Dale's destroyed, dusty streets again, and we had almost reached the marketplace when a voice made us stop.

"You are leaving."

We turned to see a thin, dark-haired boy – not a child anymore, but not a Man yet. His eyes were bright and red-rimmed, his features pale and drawn, and I recognized Cillian instantly. Girion's son. Mourning.

His voice was cold and hard, just like his face – he was tall, I had to look up at him but I withstood his gaze, even though my vision seemed strangely blurred, all of a sudden.

"There is nothing left here for us", I answered softly, and Cillian laughed, a brief, mirthless laugh.

"You have taken everything from us. Our City is in ruins, our lands are burnt and barren, our people are slain or injured... and my father died trying to defend what you should have guarded."

His words hit me as if he had smacked me, yet I did not answer, because there were no proper words to apologize.

"Come, Frerin...", I said, laying my hand upon his arm, turning away from Cillian, ready to leave.

We had done our duty, we had helped Dale's survivors, I had made sure our conscience would at least be clear on that point. We had not done it for help, we had done it to ease the guilt we felt because we had failed, and there was nothing more we could do.

"Wait."

Cillian's voice stopped us as we began to walk away – my hand was still on Frerin's arm and I had to lean upon him, the fire in my arm and blood becoming hardly bearable.

"That wound on your forearm – how did you get it?"

I turned, slowly – the street and houses around us were distorted, an indistinct mass of brown, black and grey. The air was so hot, so oppressive, suddenly I just wanted to get out of the City.

"He faced the Dragon. He saved our little sister.

\- Frerin, _mahimdin gal'mezû!_ ", I hissed, but my brother would not be stopped nor silenced.

"We loved this City too. We never wanted it to burn, never wanted your children to die as ours did. There was no time to get to you – those who have survived did so thanks to your Men, and we will never forget it. We are so sorry."

There were tears running at last on Frerin's cheeks, and I could not bring myself to order him to pull himself together. He had just voiced my thoughts, avoiding me the humiliation of excuses, assuming it alone – almost childish in his acknowledgement.

And perhaps it was because we were actually no more than children – Cillian a child of Men, and Frerin and I far from grown-up Dwarves – that the son of Girion softened.

He came up close and bent upon my wound, feeling for my fingers that were still clenched in a fist, and I let him. He touched my skin, forced my fingers to loosen their grip and then he looked at me.

"That wound is poisoning your blood."

I shook my head, trying to ignore the dizziness this simple movement caused.

"No. We are used to the fire, it doesn't harm us."

I was lying, of course. I had felt feverish ever since Balin had made me leave the tent, and it had worsened every hour – my whole body was aching and my lips were so dry I could barely speak.

Cillian raised his eyebrows, and then he made up his mind.

"Stay here. Don't move."

As if we could. Frerin made me sit on the ground, leaning me against the remains of a house, and I only remember the hard, dry ground against my thighs and palms and the hot, sticky air around us – then I passed out.

I regained consciousness minutes after, feeling water on my lips and on my face – the delightful coolness of it, quenching that terrible thirst that had plagued me... I opened my eyes, yearning for more, and found Frerin and Cillian bent upon me – my brother's face ashen, and Cillian frowning.

"He tells me you haven't drunk anything the whole day – why is that? Surely there's enough water for all of you in the river...

\- It's poisoned...", I whispered. "Full of ashes and fumes."

I recovered, leaning against the wall – I felt a little better, less dizzy but still terribly hot and thirsty.

"It has to be boiled to be drunk, and we did not have the time..."

Cillian wordlessly handed me the hip-flask he was holding, and I was about to raise it to my lips when I suddenly thought about what I had just said.

"Does it come from the river?"

Cillian shook his head.

"The waterfall...", he answered, and I could only curse us for not having thought about the cascade before – but then Ravenhill was far away, and so close to the Mountain...

Again I raised the flask to my lips, and again I stopped, noticing Frerin's parched, dry lips.

"Take some...", I said, handing it to him, and I watched him drink – only one or two gulps, before he handed it back.

"I'm not thirsty anymore...", I lied, and Cillian shook his head again.

"I have brought more. Just drink, there is enough for both of you – no need to die of thirst."

His face was grim, his eyes dark – I knew he was thinking of his father, of all the dead Men the Dragon had taken in his wrath. I bowed slightly, thanking him, and then I drank, trying to regain some strength – enough to get back to the camp, enough to move on, enough to keep everyone going.

"Your brother told me your father is injured too..."

I almost dropped the flask in surprise – Mahal, was there no ending to Frerin's chatter? Had he really no sense of pride and privacy at all? I glared at him, too furious to find my words, and Cillian spoke again.

"They all rely upon you then – how can you bear it?"

There were tears in his eyes and they quenched my anger, suddenly. That child of Men was barely older than me – and he had been thrown into that mess and desolation just as I had been. Men or Dwarves, we were all sad and terrified. Homeless and lost.

I rose to my feet, slowly, leaning a hand on the wall, and I handed the flask back to Cillian, my gaze full of unspoken sympathy.

"I bear it because I have to. There is no choice in that, is it? We have to move on, all of us..."

He took the flask and I lay my hand upon his arm.

"Thank you for the water. I won't forget."

Tears were falling on his cheeks and he brushed them away as I gently dropped my hand, ready to leave.

"Wait – Thorin, please..."

He brushed his eyes again and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"My father is dead. I don't want yours to die too. His kindness has helped us this spring, and we – we promised to remember."

His lips were quivering and he bit them, trying to fight back a sob.

"We can't offer you much food. There is not enough left, but I can let you take some wheat, and also blankets. I'll ask the men to load a cart for you... and I can give you some carts for the injured too..."

I looked up at him – that young boy, not a Man yet, so generous and kind despite his grief. And then I embraced him, not bothered by the fact that he was so much taller that my head barely reached his chest – I had never felt small among Men, they never frightened me. They had been my friends, and it warmed my heart to see that it was still the case.

"Mahal bless you, Cillian.", I whispered, and when he started to cry I just held him close.

He was true to his word, that young lord of the once mighty City we had all loved. The cart was filled, and several others handed to the dozen of faithful Dwarves that had followed me that day and had strived among the ruins.

"This is for you...", Cillian said as we parted, and he handed me a small parcel. "Some herbs to ease the pain and abate the fever, and a balm for fire-wounds. Take care of him, Thorin. Take care of your father, for he was a friend of mine."

He had tears again in his eyes and I struggled to fight back mine – I knew I would never see him again, and yet I would remember his kindness all my life.

"Mahal bless you, Cillian", I repeated, and then we left.

I could not drag the cart myself – the pain in my arm was too intense, I almost passed out again when I tried, and Frerin just pushed me away with an exasperated move, before he gestured the other Dwarves to come and take my place.

"Will you stop trying to kill yourself?", he hissed, putting my arm around his shoulders.

Frerin was the one who led me away from Dale, the other Dwarves following slowly, pulling the chariots behind them. He did not turn once, but I saw him brush away his tears with his free hand, the other still supporting me.

"You have to learn to keep silent, Frerin...", I chided him – because I had to, and also to keep him from his thoughts.

"You cannot just tell everything about us like that."

He stopped and had a brief, joyless laugh, his grey eyes ablaze in his pale, drawn face.

"Right, Thorin. I should just keep my mouth shut like yours – never ask for help, never complain and never confide in anyone, so that I can remain an honourable Dwarf and _die_ of thirst and fever!"

He let go of my arm and pulled away from me, shaking with anger – I had never seen him like that, he was always so calm, playful and gentle while I was the one who was boiling and angry.

"Do you realize the state you are in? Do you realize what I might have felt, when you chose to pass out in that dusty, smoky street? I thought I was losing you! And you... the only words you can think of are _mahimdin gal'mezû_ – keep it shut, then, Thorin, and see how far you can go without asking for help!"

He gave me a brutal shove in the chest and watched me stagger, his eyes bright and glaring. And then he let out a stifled sob and turned from me, with broad, angry steps that soon broke into a run. I watched him dash towards the camp, his golden hair flowing as he ran, too stunned to move.

And then I slowly resumed my walk – one step after another, it could not be so hard, the camp was not far away, I could already see the tents, tiny black spots close to the riverbank...

I barely remember getting back, but I recall the small weight of Cillian's parcel I was pressing against my chest.

My father. I had to get to my father.

Balin and Óin met me at the camp's entry, and I do not recall what I said to them either – probably that there was food on one of the chariots, as well as blankets and a barrel of clear water, or maybe I just pointed to the carts, too exhausted to speak.

But I clearly remember enquiring after my father, and asking Óin to take me to him, despite his frown and his repeated advice that I should rest first, that it was unreasonable for me to go to him in that state. I just waved his objections away, and when he still did not move, I felt my anger rise once more.

"Either you take me to him, or I will search every tent until I find him! Just show me where he is, Óin!"

He shook his head but then he bowed, a stiff, curt nod, and took me by the arm to guide me toward one of the tents. I remember the dust that rose and fell on my boots with each wavering step I took – the earth was so dry, dry as my mouth and my eyes.

He stopped close to the entrance and looked at me earnestly.

"You are sure about this?"

I nodded, and Óin let out a sigh.

"I will be right behind you."

And with these words, we entered the tent, and I felt my courage and strength falter as the heavy folds of dark fabric closed behind us.

I only wanted to lie down. I wanted to feel my father's arms around me and be able to tell him about Dale – the horrors I had seen there, and Cillian's kindness. I needed him to comfort me, to assure me that I had taken the right course, to take some of this terrible responsibility off my shoulders.

But I could not.

As I advanced towards the massive yet motionless figure of my father stretched onto the ground, I knew that my hours of comfort had been spent long ago – they were a vain hope, nothing more.

I knelt next to my father, casting a look upon his battered face, at the old, pale scar that had damaged his left eye, so familiar... I had run my fingers upon that mark as a Dwarfling, those mornings where my father would allow me to climb in my parents' bed, and Thráin had always let me, holding me against him, allowing me to discover alone what blades and battle could cause.

His eyes were closed now, and the raven-black hair that he had passed on to Dís and me was damp with sweat where it was not singed. There were knots and tangles everywhere, even in his beard, but what made my chest tighten was to realize for the first time that there were grey threads in his mane.

He was asleep or unconscious, I did not know, and when I reached for his hand I felt the heat of his skin. My fingers closed upon his, entwined themselves with them, and I held his hand close to my chest, suddenly overcome with grief. We were both burning, we both had endured Dragon-fire, and we both could not afford to be injured.

I felt my father's fingers tighten around mine and stroked the back of his hand, still kneeling. He opened his eyes, turned his face towards me – his gaze was unfocused, the grey iris bright as a moonstone, full of pain and anguish.

When he finally spoke, uttering only one, half-whispered word, I had to close my eyes to hide my own pain.

My mother's name. Always my mother's name.

He whispered it repeatedly, like a child calling out for help. So much anguish and suffering in a single word – I knew then that he must have woken like this every single night of the past ten years. Her name on his lips, emptiness beneath him, and the balance of his mind and soul more fragile every day.

I bent upon him, and tentatively touched his forehead with the fingers of my injured arm, stroking his hair. Thráin flinched at my touch and his body stiffened.

"It is me, Father. It's Thorin...", I whispered, trying to soothe him.

"Careful, lad."

Óin's voice echoed from the tent's entry, but his warning came too late. Suddenly Thráin reached for my wrist, his burning fingers crushing my bones. Pain and surprise made me release my own grip, and my father jerked up, reaching for my throat. His broad fingers closed themselves around my neck and he nailed me to the ground, despite his weakness and his injuries – for I was weak and injured too, and did not even think of defending myself.

I found myself lying flat on the ground, his thighs crushing my chest, his hard, strong, deadly fingers choking my throat. What foe he saw in me I never knew – I just remember the fierce, desperate expression of his face as his grip around me tightened.

I could not breathe anymore, and tried to loosen his fingers with my free hand. And as I struggled and strived under him, our eyes suddenly met. He was a formidable Dwarf, strong, fierce and ruthless, and I can recall him so clearly, bent upon me, his raven mane brushing my chest and face, his teeth gritted in rage.

I was looking at him, wide-eyed with pain and fear, my gaze beginning to cloud, and suddenly his fingers released their grip. He let go of my throat, panting, and I drew a deep, wheezing breath, desperate for air, before I started to cough.

He was still weighing me down, and I felt his hands as they brushed my chest, taking in my frame – I was still wearing my chainmail, had never had the time to undress ever since the Dragon's attack, but I must have seemed so slender to him, so light and easily crushed...

I never stopped to look at him. I could not bring myself to use his confusion to strike back – he was my father, had been my rock and my Mountain for years, I could not hit him or defeat him, I could only look at him, trying to fight back fear.

Thráin's face fell and he let go of me, freeing my chest from the iron grip of his thighs, moments before Óin hurled himself at him – for our terrible struggle had only lasted seconds.

"Let go of him!", he shouted, and as I saw him drag my father back, I realized that he might be a healer, but that he was as trained for battle as any Dwarf.

"Do not hurt him... please... Óin..."

I had recovered, reaching for Óin and my father with staggering steps – Thráin was not even struggling, he was just breathing heavily, shudders running down his spine, his gaze confused and afraid. I fell to my knees next to him and embraced him, my heart still pounding with fear and dread.

"Do not hurt him..."

I felt the hot breath of my father on my cheek and I bent to touch his forehead with mine – our sweat mingling, the same fire burning in our veins, the same soaked, black locks pressed against each other.

"It is alright, ' _adad_. I am here. I will always be here. Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you. I will never hurt you."

My voice was hardly above a whisper – I was so scared, so terribly scared. But I did not let go of him. Not even when I felt him sag against me, exhausted by this outburst and by the fever setting his blood ablaze – I would hold him, I would help him.

I slowly laid him back on his blankets, and with Óin's help we removed his tunic. There were bandages everywhere on his chest and his arms, and I shuddered when I saw the rusty pattern blood had left on the white shreds of fabric.

"You don't have to do this, Thorin."

Óin's tone was gentle, but I just shook my head. I thought of Cillian who had just lost his father and who had been kind enough to give me something to help mine – a son's gift to another son. It was my duty, no one else could do it. The lower part his body I would let Óin handle, out of respect. But my father's chest, his face, his hair – they were mine to take care of.

Óin helped me to remove the bandages and there they were, the marks of the Dragon's breath on Thráin's body, barring his tattoos, half erasing them.

I washed my hands with care and then I started to clean his wounds, with gentle, careful moves – I was not afraid to look at them, I had the same marks on my arm. And once I finished I applied the ointment Cillian had given to me, on the edges of every wound, praying Mahal to quench the fire in my father's body.

Óin was doing the same with the wounds on his legs, and then he helped me to treat his back. It was when we sat him up that I saw the broad, purple bruise stretched upon his ribs. His breathing was shallow, even unconscious, and it made my own chest hurt. We bandaged his wounds again and made him put on a clean tunic – black, without adornment, the way he favoured.

We laid him down again and I looked at him, almost numb with grief. He was lying there, so close that I could touch him, and yet I could not reach him – I could not reach him.

His face was pale and looked calmer now, but his hair was still untidy and wild, and it seemed so wrong. He had never looked that way, every single day he had tried his best. Always dressing with care, always mindful of his duties, his grief unhidden yet unvoiced. He was a Prince too, had served his King and father and had almost lost his life trying to save him, earning only contempt in return.

It was so wrong, so sad, so unfair. Death had broken his heart, fire had scorched his body, and now his mind was crumbling too – the Dwarf I had depended upon was no more.

"Thorin, you have to _rest_."

Óin's voice echoed next to me and I realized I was barely able to sit upright. I also noticed that for the first time in my life he was not calling me _lad_ anymore, and it strengthened me somehow.

"There is something I have to do first."

I had spoken softly, and my elder cousin did not argue with me when he saw me bend upon my father once more. I removed the silver clasps and beads from my father's hair, carefully – I knew every braid and every pattern by heart, I had watched him plait his hair every day as a child, and he was the one who had taught me to braid mine.

I laid the clasps and beads on the ground next to me – Thráin's private, carefully kept treasure – and Óin handed me a clean basin, his eyes full of understanding.

He left me then, giving me this one moment of privacy, and as my eyes fell on the basin I realized my cousin had also left me his comb. It was a family heirloom, centuries old, made of a light, hard material – ivory, only found in the South, rare and precious because it came from the tusk of gigantic, ferocious animals. The symbols of Borin's family were engraved upon it – Borin the Fearless, Balin's and Óin's great-grandfather, who had travelled far and taken back trophies and healing secrets from entire Middle Earth...

I let out a deep, shuddering breath, and then I gently began to bathe my father's hair. I rinsed dust and ashes away and did the same with his beard, careful not to hurt him, not to pull hair out, yet singed curls would still fall and stay in my hands. And when it was clean and smooth I began to comb it, my moves cautious and slow. It took me so long to get past the tangles and knots, just as if I was carving silver. But in the end Thráin's hair and beard were spread against his chest, unbraided yet long and luxurious again.

I stroked it with my fingertips, feeling some peace invade me at last. My body ached and exhaustion made my eyelids burn, but my mind and heart were at peace – I was not afraid anymore.

"If you do not remember, ' _adad_ , I will remember for you."

I whispered these words like a promise, as my fingers began to braid Thráin's hair. The moves were so intimate, so familiar I could do it even with an injured arm, even through the haze of fever. My fingers ran nimbly through my father's damp locks, weaving the symbol of our clan into his braids – Durin's folk braids, fastened with a silver clasp. And then I braided the locks on his temples the way he had taught me to do with mine – the simple, three-threaded pattern of our family line, the line of Thrór, who had strived, fought and reclaimed our kingdom, only to lose it again.

 _Endure, treasure, protect_.

I would not let our family forget, I was still there to keep these proud values upright – may Mahal forgive my weakness as a King... May he forgive my folly when he gave me back what the Dragon took, because while I had nothing I never forgot the oath I took that night, weaving those words into my father's hair.

I finished with his beard, and as I fastened his braids, I realized that the beads he placed in it every day were my mother's. He must have woven his own in her hair before he laid her into her grave, and it struck me that I had never noticed it before – perhaps because it was long past, the time when he would hold me close enough to do so...

When I sat up, I felt as if I recognized him at last. My father, whom I had loved so deeply and still loved, for what he had been and still was. He had given me life and deserved to live, and as I looked at him I swore to myself I would take care of him every day, not only seeing to his comfort, but making sure that his dignity was preserved.

"Sleep, _'adad_. Rest."

I whispered those words before I touched his temple with my lips, and then I rose. The ground was unsteady under my feet and I was swaying as I left the tent, pushing back the heavy folds of tissue.

"Foremost rule to be able to protect others..."

I had almost tripped upon a silhouette keeping watch at the tent's entrance, and the Dwarf rose swiftly and caught me in his arms.

"... take care of yourself first.", Balin whispered, and then he carried me back into the tent because my legs would not support me anymore.

He made me sit on the ground and then he made me drink. The water was cool, soothing and tasted of thyme and sage – I knew then that he had given me some of Cillian's precious herbs.

Thirsty. I was so thirsty.

I drank almost an entire jug, leaning into Balin's embrace, too weak to thank him and to move. And Balin held me, until I felt the heat in my blood abide slowly, until my vision cleared up again – these herbs were priceless indeed.

"We have to treat that wound of yours, lad."

 _Lad_.

My last pretence of strength just vanished with this fond word, and I slumped into Balin's arms.

"I can't do this, Balin."

I whispered those words as he removed my belt and my jerkin, and pulled my chainmail from my body, freeing my chest and shoulders from its weight.

"Of course you can...", he answered gently, and I did not have the strength to tell him I was not talking about my wound.

My tunic was soaked and plastered against my chest and back. I pulled it off myself, with clumsy, tired moves, and Balin's eyes clouded when he saw how bruised my skin was, and the red, terrible marks on my throat I owed to my father.

"No one has to know."

I looked at Balin, beseechingly, and he nodded, sadly, before he removed the bandages around my arm. He helped me to wash, without a word, the water cooling down my skin, and then we bathed my wound again. I did not feel the pain as acutely as before, and did not even flinch when he applied the ointment on my wound before bandaging it.

He made me raise my arms and put on a clean tunic – I realized with shame I had no strength left to do so alone, I could barely apologize for my weakness.

 _I am so sorry. I should be stronger. I am unworthy to be called a Prince, a lord or a leader. I am so sorry._

Balin shook his head at my words – they were leaving my lips unchecked as exhaustion and fever were finally taking their toll. He held me against him once more, resting my head against his shoulder and rocking me slightly.

" _Mamarrakhûn_.", he whispered, stroking my hair. "Do you know what it means, Thorin?"

I looked up at him, trying to keep focused and awake. The Khuzdûl word he had softly spoken out hung between us in the tent like an incantation, and I was struggling with my answer.

"A shielder... a shield-man...?"

Balin shook his head again, almost smiling.

"You are close, lad, but not quite. Shielder would be _umrakh_ , and shield-man _markhûn_. Now, _mamarrakhûn_ is an even stronger word than that, it means 'he who continues to shield'. Every King and Prince is _mamarrakhûn_ to his folk. You are. Frerin is. And Dís is _mamarrakhûna_ too."

His hand went on stroking my hair – I was feeling so light, so relaxed in his arms, it was almost as if we were back in Erebor, where his wonderful stories would gently carry us to sleep.

"But it is such a weight, such a burden to bear – to shield, to protect, always striving, never allowed to break down. That is why every true leader – everyone, Thorin – also has his _mamarrakhûn_. A person that he trusts, in life and on the battlefield. Someone he confides in so much that he can lower his guard, show his weakness and be comforted, and cared for if needed. Nobody can lead relying only on his own strength. It would be too hard, too cruel to be so alone."

As Balin words reached me, I felt as if some of the weight crushing down my shoulders was slowly taken from me. I buried my face into Balin's chest, unable to speak for a while, and when I did my voice was thick.

"You are my _mamarrakhûn_ , Balin."

He laughed then, a soft, deep, fond laugh, holding me closer and kissing my forehead.

"No, Thorin. I simply love you, lad, that's all. Besides, I cannot serve you both."

I stiffened when I heard him voice these words, and when I pulled away to look at him I noticed his gaze had shifted to my father. It all made sense, suddenly – all these fond moments with Balin when my father had closed himself up in grief. The reason why Balin was always there, with us, so much more than a cousin or an uncle...

I embraced him tightly, nestling against him. I loved him too, I had loved him ever since he had found me crying and sulking against that stone wall, and had taken me back home.

"And grandfather?", I asked, feeling sleep invade me slowly. "Who is _mamarrakhûn_ to him...?"

Balin had begun to stroke my hair again, and he took his time to answer my question – a rightful one, since my grandfather seemed to confide into nobody lately.

"Nár is. Nár has been Thrór's _mamarrakhûn_ ever since they fought the Drakes in the Grey Mountains, long before they came back here."

I shuddered – I did not want to think about Drakes anymore, I just wanted to sleep, and in Balin's arms it suddenly felt possible.

"You will keep watch – you will not let Frerin or Dís get inside?

\- I will."

I let out a deep, painful sigh and then I finally closed my eyes.

"Do not let me sleep too long", I whispered. "I have to get back to them... they will worry... Frerin is already upset..."

My thoughts had begun to drift and fall apart, the only thing that kept me awake was the gentle stroke of Balin's fingers.

"They know where you are."

I sighed again, struggling to voice my last doubts.

"Balin, I cannot lead... I have never been to war..."

He had begun to rock me again, slowly, and he gently laid his hand upon my mouth to silence me.

"This is war, lad...", he whispered, stroking my cheek with the back of his hand. "And now, just sleep. Sleep, Thorin. Have some rest."

Balin's words swirled and spun around me, and I took them with me in my slumber, still sheltered in his arms.

Shielded.

At peace.

* * *

 **Neo-Khuzdûl translations :**

\- _uzbadê_ : my King

\- _mahimdin gal'mezû_ : shut your mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

**The King of Carven Stone : Part III**

 **Through Ice and Fire (Exile)**

 **2.**

 _Do not look behind_.

I was clinging to those words as to life, as I started to walk away from the Mountain, away from the Valley, away from everything I knew. For now, it was still familiar ground, for now we had not left Erebor's realm, but soon we would leave the lands I had explored and head into wilder roads.

I had discussed it with Balin, earlier on. He had held me in his arms the whole night and I had slept – a heavy, exhausted sleep, I had not felt him move when he searched for a blanket to wrap it around me. He held me close and kept everyone at bay until dawn. He kept even nightmares at bay, and when I woke I felt better.

The terrible heat of the fever was gone, and my wound was not as sore – I could move my fingers and clench my fist almost without pain. I recovered, slowly, and met his smile once more.

"Did you sleep?", I asked, noticing his worn features and his tired gaze – he must have stayed awake the whole night.

Balin nodded, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened.

"I think I might have snored quite loudly, yet it failed to make you stir, lad.

\- You should have woken me earlier..."

His eyes fell upon me – barely awake, my hair tousled and my body bruised under my worn-out tunic – and he shook his head.

"Indeed not", he said softly, and then he pushed my braids away, taking a look at the half-hidden marks on my throat.

"What of ' _adad_...?", I whispered, looking at Thráin who was still stretched motionlessly on the blankets, and making sure to hide my bruises again.

"I will take care of him", Balin said firmly. "He is better. I will manage him with Óin. You can come to him on the evenings."

I nodded wordlessly. I knew he was right. I had to be cautious about that, I could not unsettle him again. And I had to keep Frerin and Dís from him, until I could be sure of his reactions.

I rose to my feet with a sigh and pulled on my chainmail, my jerkin and my belt – they were heavy but I felt older in those, it was like a screen, a hard, grim, second skin that could hide just how thin and vulnerable I felt inside. I paused for a moment, looking at the only arm-guard I still had, and then I fastened it upon my wound to protect it from dust and dirt.

Balin smiled sadly when I faced him, and then he stroked one of my half-loosened braids – I realized then that despite my warrior gear, I looked nothing more than what I was to him: a Dwarfling just roused from sleep.

"I will be back...", Balin said, and I quickly pulled off my own hair clasps and my beads.

I ran my fingers through my hair – I felt unworthy of Óin's precious comb, and hurried through my braids, making them thin but tight. I was fastening my clasps when Balin came back, and he handed me a small bowl of wheat.

"Eat, lad. It's not much but it's good, and you'll need it."

I obeyed, realizing as I ate just how hungry I was, and then I looked at Balin, unsure – so terribly unsure.

"I... I don't know the way, Balin."

I had whispered those words, and he raised his eyebrows, mocking me gently.

"And all these maps we perused together, what of them, lad?"

I shook my head, and then I bent to draw a rough map on the ground. Erebor, the Mountain, the Elvenking's Forest – and the river, getting south and then east, until it reached the Iron Hills.

"I know we have to go east, and that it would be shorter not to follow the river. We could cross those lands straight away – that is what Náin did when he came, Dwalin told me so."

I felt my heart warm when I spoke his name – how I missed him, my tall, brave friend... He would have known which way to go, I was sure of it, he would have smiled, shouldered his axe and just started walking – not worrying. Not afraid. Unwavering.

"But... They had warriors, they had supplies, they were all strong and their journey was planned. They did not need to search for water, and they could defend themselves in those lands, while we cannot. We have to stay close to the towns, and the villages – our only chances of supplies lie with Men, and near the River."

I looked up at Balin – he had not spoken, he had let me unfold my thoughts without influencing me, just like when I was younger and when he made me explain a complicated grammar-rule or an arithmetic demonstration so as to understand it better.

"We have to follow the River", I said, my hand still resting upon the dusty ground. "But Balin – it will take weeks. Months even, with all the wounded, and the autumn is late already.

\- It is the only way, lad.", Balin answered softly, and I felt dread invade me.

I was dooming us to months of exile – and I was not even sure it was the right decision.

"What does my grandfather say?", I asked, my voice tiny, and Balin sighed.

"Thrór? I fear he does not say much – at least nothing helpful. His mind is elsewhere, Thorin. We cannot rely upon his advice, as much as it pains me to say so..."

Despair invaded my heart then, and it must have shown in my eyes, because Balin gently laid his hand upon my shoulder.

"But, for what it is worth, lad, I think it is the right decision. So does Nár, and so do Óin, Dagur, and Itô. She has seen war – she's old but her mind is sharp, and she thinks as we do. Besides, Thorin... Frerin's advice is to keep close to Men to survive. He – what were his exact words when I asked him? Oh..."

He looked at me, his brown eyes sparkling.

" _Thorin's head is stuffed with silly notions of pride and endeavour, but he knows what course to take, he knows where to lead us, and he will choose the River._

\- I will make him swallow his braids...", I whispered, getting up with a swift move, and Balin laughed, quietly, for he knew better.

Some of the tents were being folded as I got out, and I went straight to the one where I knew my brother was. He was already outside, had helped some of the Dwarflings to gather their things, and when I laid my hand upon his arm he turned to face me.

His face brightened for a second when he saw me, and then became earnest again. He looked at me, taking in my face and my whole body, his eyes grave and searching.

"So...", I whispered, bending towards him – for I was still taller. "I am proud and my head is stuffed with silly notions, right?"

I had spoken quietly – I was not angry, not really, I just wanted to be even with Frerin again, for I had upset him the day before and still felt bad about it.

"Of course you are", he said dryly. "You are dreadfully overbearing, and you definitely have issues with the word ' _thank you_ ', at least when it comes to me. And you know what's even worse? That you feel sorry every time, and that it's still upsetting you while I have already forgotten all about it."

He was still looking at me, his grey eyes bold and sparkling – that shiny, insolent brother of mine, how small he made me feel sometimes...

"Frerin, I...", I begun, but he just cut me off and embraced me, saving me from speaking.

"Oh, keep it for later, Thorin", he sighed, and in the end I just hugged him back, drawing him against my chest and holding him close.

"I don't know where I would be without you...", I whispered, so low that he was the only one that could hear it. "Without you, and Dís... I would go mad – I would be lost."

I had breathed those words into his hair, thinking of my father, and my grip around Frerin tightened as I realized how much we already had lost, and how many things I had to keep from him.

His hands brushed my back, gently – he was not unsettled by my words, he knew me well and above all, he loved me as I loved him.

"How is your arm?", he asked, pulling back slightly so as to take a look at it. "Oh, it looks better."

His gaze found mine again, playful and kind.

"You look better too. Yesterday after Dale – Mahal, the _state_ of you! I heard you speak to Óin – it barely made sense. Then you passed me, you actually _swayed_ past me and then you vanished in that tent and just did not come out... I sent Balin after you, I was worried – what happened there? How is ' _adad_?"

I was still holding him – dear, lively Frerin, voicing whatever was in his mind, so open even after all these horrors... Shield him. I had to shield him, and keep him like that.

"He's resting. He's still not well – I don't want you or Dís to see him that way, it will upset him...

\- You stayed ages with him, however!", Frerin replied, still looking at me, and I paused, feverishly thinking of an excuse, of anything...

"I fainted", I said – it was close to the truth, after all. "I passed out as soon as I entered the tent. As you said – I was... not well either, yesterday. Then Balin helped me dressing that wound, and then I slept. So, in the end – getting to him was not of much use..."

Frerin's grey eyes were still doubtful – it was so unlike me, to speak openly about faults and weaknesses, but it was the only excuse I could think of and, since it somehow matched my brother's expectations, he finally accepted it.

"Glad you feel better", he said, and then he let go of me.

"Where is Dís?", I asked, as we joined the Dwarrowdams to help them fold our tent.

"She's with Óin. She says she wants to help him with the wounded."

And so she was. I searched for her – I had not seen her for an entire day and yearned for her. But when I saw her, dressed in a worn-out tunic and in pants she had curled up, stuffing them in her boots just like a Dwarf, when I saw her calm, earnest childish face as she bent towards an injured warrior to help him to recover – I barely recognized my little sister.

The small child I had held against me – it was gone. That tiny body I knew so well, those graceful wrists and slender fingers – they were moving as usual, but the mind and Soul inside had unfolded, and Dís looked older. Stronger.

She had tied up her hair – she still wore the embroidered ribbons our women used to fasten their thick, silky braids, and the silver beads in her tiara caught the light, now and then, when her head moved. But apart from those small adornments, and from the fact that her cheeks were still smooth and beardless, she looked like a young Dwarfling, no more like a fragile Dwarven-Princess.

I looked at her – my eyes embraced that slender frame, pride and grief fighting for dominion in my heart. And then she lifted her gaze and saw me.

She gently laid her hand upon the injured warrior's arm, and then she walked towards me – I do remember that sapphire-blue gaze, so bright, so luminous, so faithful.

"We are almost ready to go, Thorin."

I could not speak, I just extended my hands, and Dís took them in hers, placing them around herself as she embraced me, her cheek resting against my chest.

 _I don't want to leave, Dís. I don't want to lead you astray. I don't want to lose you. I am scared. I am so scared._

Those words never passed my lips, and yet Dís sensed them – she always guessed my darkest thoughts, she always knew, the bond between us was so strong...

"You won't lead us astray, _marlel..._ ", she whispered. "You already helped to save so many. They all trust you. They all love you. Do not look behind."

And I did not.

As my steps took me further and further from the Mountain, as my people behind me stretched, moving slowly past the riverbank, leaving the burnt trees and the ash-covered ground behind – I did not look back.

My axe and sword were fastened again on my back, and my strides were decided and quick – even, unwavering, as they had to be. I pointed to the right direction, I laid a reassuring palm upon several shoulders, I stooped to relieve Itô from her small burden – the chestnut-haired Dwarfling, still too small to walk.

I looked so assured, but I was not. My heart was racing, and I clung to the Dwarfling I was carrying more than he clung to me – I held him against my chest like a precious shield, focusing on his small weight so as to be able to head on and lead.

"Svali...", Itô answered, when I asked her what his name was – the little one had not yet begun to speak and was only making sounds.

Strangely happy sounds, tugging at my braids and beaming at me every time I happened to look at him.

"You don't know anything...", I whispered to him. "You have no idea of where we are going, have you, Svali?"

I was walking far ahead of the rest and no one could hear my words. Svali made a small, shrill sound – recognizing his name, probably, his heels kicking against my chest.

"Neither have I, _nadnith_."

I brushed his back with my palm, smiling despite of myself when I saw his bright, hazel eyes, his small chestnut curls and his happy little face. I shook my head so as to tickle his cheek with my braids and he had a delighted laugh.

"And you do not care about that, do you? You little nut, you shining, little acorn – could you not have picked somebody else to throw your smiles away? I am not your mother, you know..."

Svali was looking at me, and I suddenly realized what I had said. My voice broke and I dragged him against me once more, falling silent, my steps the only sound on the leaf-covered earth.

 _Move on. Don't look behind. And keep your lips shut, for you are the one who knows nothing._

Night was closing in when Dís caught up with me. We had covered several miles – an encouraging first step, a small success that had helped to ease my mind a little. Svali was slumbering in my arms, and I had actually stopped thinking, the even pace of my walk lulling both him and my thoughts to sleep.

"It is so beautiful, Thorin..."

I turned to face her, wondering what she was talking about. Dís searched for my fingers and entwined hers with mine.

"The leaves, the moss on the trees... The pattern of those branches, and the sky – have you seen the sky? No boundaries, no window-frames to cage it... I wish I could be a bird, Thorin, and fly among the clouds to discover how far they stretch..."

Her eyes were shining – she was so passionate, so full of joy, there was not an inch of fear in her feelings. And it made me realize for the first time how different our lives in Erebor must have been. She was still young, and had hardly ever thrown herself in a tantrum, but several months ago she had indeed turned wild and furious one day, hitting me in the chest, her cheeks wet with angry tears, because my father had forbidden her to accompany me to Dale, and because I had supported him, for she was too young.

"You make me feel like a prisoner!", she had screamed, and then she had fled from the room, avoiding me for the next couple of days.

It had been the only time we had been estranged, and I had hated it. I had brought a bag full of goods, toys and precious objects from Dale, trying to bring back some of the City's atmosphere in Dís' room, and she had thanked me.

But it had not been enough, and as my gaze fell on my little sister who was soaking in the landscapes, revelling in the trees, the sky, the Nature, I suddenly understood why. She had only wanted a short, single day of freedom, and I had not even been able to grant her that.

"I am sorry, Dís", I whispered, and it was her turn to gaze at me in bewilderment. "I wish you could have discovered all that differently. I wish I could have shown it to you on a happier day."

Her fingers tightened around mine.

"I don't need you to show me anything. I have eyes as you have, a Soul and mind as you have – you and me, we are the same, we feel the same. We are both free."

She looked at me, earnestly, and I shook my head. Erebor's walls had crumbled – setting her free while burdening myself with the terrible task to leading my people to safety. Even if we reached the Iron Hills, even then, I would always have to think about my kin first. The dream of leaving them, to discover the world alone, only guided by my own wishes – it would remain a dream, a childish daydream.

There was no escaping this.

"I am not", I whispered. "I am not free. I will never be."

The words had left my heart before I could check them, and I hated myself for destroying her happiness. She was still holding my hand, and her gaze clouded – I swore to Mahal I would never voice any of my feelings anymore.

"Forget what I said, Dís, I am just tired, I don't know what I was thinking. Of course we are free, of course you are right, there are no boundaries to cage us here."

Night had closed in. It was dark, and behind us they had stopped, starting to unfold the tents.

"Why are you doing this?", Dís whispered, letting go of my fingers. "Why are you always drawing back every time you begin to voice your feelings? Why are you lying to me, and pretending you can handle everything alone?"

She was not angry – there was only sadness and hurt in her eyes, and I did not know how to answer, I just held Svali closer against me.

"I have been to _'adad_ , today.", she went on, her voice not above a murmur. "I have seen him, I went there with Óin, and I know what he did to you. I saw those marks on your neck – I am not blind, Thorin, I don't need you to shield me. I made Óin tell me what _'adad_ did to you, and what you did in return, and it made me cry. It made me cry because you did not share it with Frerin or me."

She was still looking at me, and I could feel myself begin to crumble inwardly – she was destroying all the fragile pretence of strength I had tried to build in the past hours.

"I am not afraid of _'adad'_ s madness.", Dís whispered. "He has shared it with me, every time I went down to fetch him among the tombs. I know where he wanders, I know he misses ' _amad_ , and I do not fear it. There is no need for you to bear this burden alone. No need to keep Frerin away from him – he is his son too, he has the same strength and love as you."

I tool some steps back, my arms so tightly wrapped around Svali's small body that he let out a moan. He stirred against me, and suddenly I was afraid to break down. I stooped to put him on the ground, and he began to cry, softly at first and then with loud, heartbreaking sobs, because I was running away.

I left Dís with Svali, turning my back on her, unable to face her and her words, and I ran. Down the small hill where we had been standing, away from the River whose course we had followed the whole day – I just ran, stumbling across wild bushes and their roots, tripping upon rocks and dead branches.

I ran until my breath failed me, until my lungs ached and burned, until there was not enough air left to cry. I let myself down on the ground, somewhere in the wilderness, and as I panted, my hands pressed against my ribs, I desperately tried to pull myself together.

I had one minute – one minute to regain my breath, and then I would stand up. I would brace myself and go back there, acting as I should – as it was expected of me. Dís could think whatever she wanted – I would not discuss my feelings with her, or with anyone.

Feelings only made you break down. Feelings were allowed if you were safe, if you could truly be yourself, and I could not.

I could not.

"I won't let you free...", I whispered, resting my hand on the earthy ground, and then I rose.

I was standing among wild bushes, not far from the riverbank – the river had drawn a slow curve on the mossy land, and in my run I had cut across the wilderness so as to cross its waters again.

 _What a glorious short-cut, Thorin_.

I felt the ghost of a smile on my lips as those words entered my mind – Dwalin could have voiced them, I could almost picture him, standing against one of the trees, his hand resting on his axe, his bushy eyebrows raised and his brown eyes mocking me gently.

"Just keep it low", I whispered, not caring for the fact that there was no one there facing me, and that my words were blown away in the icy wind that had risen.

"You would have crushed down every bush, cursing them and calling them firewood-in-being. I know you would have, don't shrug your shoulders and don't shush me."

I was still smiling when I began to walk down the River – I did not want to return to the camp yet, there seemed to be light about a mile ahead, several lights that could point to a village, and I was curious to see how big it was. Perhaps we could find some work, or at least some supplies.

The River soon grew larger, and as I reached the group of houses that were huddled there I realized it was because there was another stream adding itself to its waters.

There was indeed a village – a small village, not above a hundred houses, yet it did not look abandoned. There seemed to be boats on the riverbanks, not only fishing boats but trading-barges, and I realized that the village was probably built along one of the locks, allowing merchants to transport their goods across the canal that lead to the west.

I could see a small bridge, a market place, and the harbour – not much more, for it was getting late and the moon was thin that night. Yet it looked promising, and I resolved to return there in the morning with several Dwarves, for I was sure we could find work there.

I turned then, following the river upstream again, feeling able to go back, now that I had the ghost of a plan in my head, now that I could at least _suggest_ what could be done next. And it was as I reached the camp that I suddenly realized that for a couple of hours, I had completely forgotten about Erebor and the Dragon, and about my father.

"Hey, show yourself!"

I recognized Dagur's rough voice in the darkness – he was one of the Dwarves on guard, for this was a precaution Balin and Nár had agreed upon, that there should always be a dozen warriors watching over the camp every night.

"It's me, Dagur. Thorin.

\- Durin's beard, lad!", he growled, as I stepped up to him, and when I smiled at him he just glared back.

"What are you doing here, roaming the riverbank like a ghost? I almost mistook you for some venison!"

He lowered his crossbow and I realized with a shudder that I had been close to be shot by one of his deadly arrows. Thank Mahal he first shouted at venison before shooting it – though this method did not strike me as a particularly successful one, when I began to think about it.

He was shaking his head at me, still displeased, and I swallowed my comment – he was right after all, I had behaved foolishly ever since I had left Dís.

"Dagur, there is a village down there. It's close to the canal, there is a harbour and some trading-barges. I think we should head there tomorrow, see what we can find.

\- Well for now, you'd better head to your tent and see what _you_ can find. Food's scarce, I would hurry to get my share if I were you."

He had grumbled those words while pushing me towards the camp, and as I walked away I heard him mutter:

"Steps out of the shade like a ghost and talks quietly of barges and boats – by my beard..."

The tents were all mounted and small fires were lit on each threshold – there was enough dry wood around us yet, and we were still close enough to Erebor so as to be safe from Orcs or Goblins.

I could see the shadows of Dwarves against the flames – they were warming themselves up, most of them huddled together. Quiet and weary – they had covered many miles in a single day, and the shelter and food they got for what they had strived was scarce.

A thin shadow rose as I walked between the tents and I froze when I recognized Dís – but she only handed me a bowl of warm soup. I closed my fingers upon it, realizing how cold and hungry I felt, yet I did not sit down to eat, because she was avoiding my gaze – angry or hurt, I could bear neither of it.

"I am sorry, Dís...", I whispered, and she had a sad smile.

"You keep telling me those words tonight."

She looked at me then, and saw hurt rise in my eyes. Hurt and guilt, for she was right.

"I cannot... I am not good with words, Dís", I said, my voice low. "I am not good with... all this. I am always... I am always saying the wrong thing while... while everything that really matters stays unvoiced. And... I cannot speak about what matters, about what I truly feel... because if I do... if I try to..."

Hot soup splashed on my fingers and I realized my hands were shaking. Dís stepped up to me and gently took the bowl, brushing my skin as she did.

"I know...", she whispered, and she rose on tiptoes to kiss me. "I _do_ know, Thorin. Now please, sit down and eat. It is hot and good, it will warm you up."

She did not scold me, she did not ask anything from me, she just sat down next to me and watched me eat, and when I finished she parted my arms to nestle close to me, her face resting against my neck.

I stroked her hair, the ribbons around her braids, the beads among her locks – that beautiful, wonderful Dwarrowlass that was wiser and stronger than any warrior.

I love you, _mamarlûna_.

"I know, Thorin...," she said, her arms wrapped around my chest, and yet I had not spoken. "So do I. Never run away from me anymore.

\- I promise...", I whispered, saying those words aloud, and she sighed, before pressing a silent kiss into my neck and closing her eyes.

That night I sang her to sleep, softly, just like I did when she was smaller. I sang because I could not speak, my voice deep and low, and when Frerin came to join me, sitting down next to me and resting his cheek on my shoulder, I did not stop.

" _Keep watching, my Treasure, we'll be at the door_..."

I do still remember those words that spoke of brighter days and yet allowed me to express my grief without falling apart, as I do remember Dís' small weight on my lap and Frerin's warmth close to me, on that first, cold night in the wilderness of our exile.

The next day we headed for the village, six Dwarves, including Dagur and me. Balin could not go with us, his leg was still sore and he was exhausted – he had tended to my father, had helped Óin with the wounded and, as if it was not enough, he had also been at Nár's side during my grandfather's latest outburst.

"Are you mad?!", Thrór had shouted, glaring at me. "You want to go to that village of filthy, swarthy Men who live their lives crouching next to the water – and for what? To ask for food, for supplies, to offer your services to them?!"

He had grabbed my shoulders before Nár could hold him back and he shook me – his blue eyes locked in mine. Shining, yet without any light. So cold.

"You are a Prince, a son of Kings – we do not beg, we do not ask anything, we rather starve! Have you no pride, no sense of honour?! What did I teach you, what did I pass on to you, I wonder?"

He let go of me and Nár gently took him by the arm, while I stood there, my face ashen, trying to overcome the pain his words had caused once more, listening to his shouts that were fading slowly as Nár led him away.

I flinched when I felt hands again on my shoulders – but it was Balin. Brown eyes were gazing at me, and the contrast could not be plainer – so much warmth, so much love.

"If you let this nonsense harm you – if you dare to remember any of those silly words, I will never speak to you again, Thorin. Let him starve if he wants to – fasting helps to clear up the mind, they say..."

He did not let go of me until he was sure I was steady again, until he managed to summon the ghost of a smile on my lips – and then he pushed me away, towards the River and the village.

"Well, lad, what are you still doing here?"

He winked at me, Dagur took me by the arm and we left. I was a tall Dwarfling, but I still was the shortest of our company, and when we reached the village I was the one Men stared at, their eyes wide and their mouths open.

"Dwarves! Look! I told you they were smaller than us – look at the dark-haired one, it must be a child still... See, he has no beard yet, not like that blond one, look, it reaches his belt – oooh, it's not his belt, it's his beard still, he has fastened his sword into his own hair!

\- Wait until I thrust it into your fat belly, to teach you how to talk about my hair...", grumbled Dagur. "Are they dumb, or what, they think we can't hear them?

\- Calm down...", one of the other Dwarves said, winking at him. "They are not used to us, especially not to _you_. And maybe they think we do not understand them."

He advanced towards the Men, making sure to show his palms in an appeasing gesture, and then he bowed.

"Hergíl, at your service."

Their jaws dropped even more when they heard him speak, and they gathered close to each other like frightened birds.

"We are currently crossing the lands around your beautiful village, and searching for work. We know how to shape metal, to manage heavy weights – we can do anything for you, and gladly exchange our skills for food."

He had a friendly smile – but those Men, they still gazed at him like he was a strange, wild animal.

" _Idiots_ ", Dagur signed in Iglishmêk, and I would have laughed at Hergíl's discreet yet firm reply, had I not been anxious to get to an understanding with those Men, so different from those I had known.

" _Keep – those hands – of yours – where they belong. In – your – damn – trousers – with everything else._ "

Hergíl's fingers were nimble indeed, and his face betrayed nothing, still open and smiling.

"Well, I s'ppose... You could try the forge... There's always work there, horses need shooing."

They grinned to each other, no doubt thinking that Hergíl would shrink from the horses' height – but they did not know him, or any of his skills and courage.

"And there's the lock. Old Wilfred, the lock-keeper – sure he would like some help. More time for sipping his ale... He's seen enough water for a lifetime."

They laughed freely then, a rough, coarse laugh – how I missed Cillian's clear, kind gaze, the earnest, friendly faces of those Men at home... But there was no more home.

And so, minutes after, we split up. Hergíl and the three others heading for the forge, and Dagur and I searching for the lock and its keeper.

"Keep close to me, lad...", he growled, and I obeyed – I was not really scared, but I definitely did not feel at ease, everything here was so different, so... so _unpolished_.

"Must be him. Mahal, what a creature..."

A creature indeed he was. Thin, crooked, and so _dirty_ – incredibly dirty for someone who spent his days close to so much water. He smelt of ale, urine and tobacco – he was chewing at some leaves, eyeing us suspiciously as we walked up to him.

"Light upon your day...", I said shyly, too nervous to remember how Men used to greet each other, and using the Dwarven fashion instead. "Are you... are you the lock-keeper?"

His eyebrows had shot up and he had a gravelly laugh as he took me in – I had neither chainmail nor weapons that day because Dagur was supposed to stay with me, and only wore my dark leather jerkin above my tunic.

"What if I am?", he asked, his speech slow, still chewing.

"The Men in the village... They said you could use some help – with the lock. We could run it for you today, if you want...

\- What for?", he questioned, and Dagur pushed me aside.

"Those boats – how much do they pay you, when you move those gates to let them pass?

\- Two silver coins...", the Man replied, after a small pause where he seemed to consider if it was wise to answer.

"What about that – you get your work done today, have some ale while I run that lock for you. One silver coin for me, and one for you, I working, and you sitting down, how pretty does that sound to you?"

He was glaring at the Man, but his voice had remained almost polite, and it did not unsettle the lock-keeper.

"Sounds nice. Strange request – but nice one."

He had again that ugly laugh, full of leaves and dribble, and I almost shuddered with disgust.

"Deal", Dagur said. "Take me to that lock."

The Man bowed ironically, starting to walk away, and I felt Dagur's arm barring my chest as I was about to follow him.

"No, Thorin. Not you. I'm not witnessing that – you are not to strive like a troll for that disgusting Man who knows nothing of you."

He had spoken in Khuzdûl, in a deep, growling tone, his broad, strong arm still holding me back. And I answered in the same language, putting my hands upon his fingers and pulling myself free.

"You will have to get used to it, Dagur. The sooner, the better."

He shook his head, displeased, and I faced him – this strong, fierce, tall Dwarf that could kick me into the canal with a single hit.

"Where is our kingdom now?", I asked softly. "What use is there to cling to pride, when there is work to do?

\- You should not have to do that!", he answered, his face dark and hard, and I shook my head.

"And neither should you."

I had spoken gently, and when he didn't answer, I turned to the Man who had witnessed our discussion, his brow knitted and his gaze suspicious again.

"Tell us what we have to do", I said, and the Man eyed me for some seconds, then spat the tobacco he had been chewing, aiming for the water and missing it.

"Simple task enough", he said, his speech slow and thick. "Boat comes. Upstream or downstream, doesn't matter. You open the gate for the boat. It gets into the chamber and you close the gate. Then you lift the gate's paddle to let water out or in, it depends where the boat is going... When the water is on the right level, you open the other gate, and off the boat sails..."

He pointed to the lock gears next to the gates.

"You lift the paddles with those. Think you can manage that, eh?"

He looked at me, eyeing me from head to foot.

"Or perhaps that brain of yours is small too...

\- _Kamnûl 'urmarum udu 'ihan_ ", growled Dagur, stepping forward, and I extended my arm to hold him back.

"I think I understand", I answered, my voice calm yet icy. "The task sounds simple enough... even for us."

The Man looked at Dagur, then at me – I was still facing him, not lowering my gaze, and he seemed uncomfortable, suddenly. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, and then he muttered:

"Well, fair enough. Don't break anything, that's all I ask."

I bowed slightly – I was so full of contempt for that Man I didn't trust my face anymore – and watched him go away.

Dagur was breathing heavily, his face flushed and his eyes ablaze, and his strong fingers enclosed the lock gear as if their only aim was to bend and break it.

"That miserable canal rat...", he growled. "I could have... I could have done anything to him, I still can, you just have to ask!"

I smiled at him – I did not mind the Man and his words, he was unworthy of our anger. I just felt glad, suddenly, to be with Dagur and to see that there was someone who actually cared, who was hot-tempered and proud just as if we were still roaming Erebor, and who was not afraid to show his anger to me.

"I won't, Dagur, and you know it."

He let out his breath noisily, and then his eyes turned to the water.

"Boat, Thorin."

A hard day it was, but an interesting day – because the way that lock worked was fascinating. Such a simple device, allowing boats to cross the canal and to overcome different water levels... The Man had spoken quickly, not caring if we understood what he said, but it was simple, you only had to understand which gear to move so as to lift the correct panel. Filling the lock with water when the boat had to get upstream – emptying it when it headed downstream.

Dagur and I worked without speaking. We only spoke with the Men who greeted us, astonished to find us running the lock – and often pleased, for these were merchants, used to travelling, who had seen some Dwarves in their lives and had a sincere interest for us.

"Is that your son?", one of them asked, his voice gentle and his round face looking at me with a smile.

Dagur shook his head wordlessly, and the Man did not press him further, streetwise enough to know when to drop a subject.

"Well you do strive hard indeed", he only added, and as he was about to leave he bent towards me, handing me a small parcel.

"There. Some cake, and some apples. You might enjoy them both, between two boats – lucky we are indeed to have you, may you keep your strength so that our travels stay swift."

He smiled at me and I bowed, not daring to smile back, holding the parcel against my chest – if that Man knew how his gift found its way to my heart... I would not eat the cake or the apples, not here, not alone. I would save it for the Dwarflings, and for Dís and Frerin.

The sun was low when we finally left the village. Dagur had kept his word – sixty shiny silver coins we had earned, and he poured thirty into the lock-keeper's lap, without a word, and then he went to the miller to get some wheat.

Hergíl and the others had worked hard too – two heavy sacks of wheat were the reward of their day, and one was added thanks to Dagur and me. They hoisted the sacks on their backs and then we left.

"Glad to get away...", Dagur grumbled, and I agreed inwardly.

I did not carry anything, they did not even consider it. I stumbled along the other Dwarves, too exhausted to speak, for I had strived for hours without pausing, and the work had been way harder than in Erebor's forges. As the days would pass my body would get used to it, getting stronger as my muscles hardened, but that evening I was done for – utterly done for.

"Well, laddie, how did it go?", Balin asked, embracing me as we reached the camp, and I handed him the parcel.

"Apples, and cake. And wheat – three heavy bags..."

He smiled at me and kissed my forehead, and then he led us to one of the fires – the six of us, we sat down together while the Dwarves around us cheered and handed us some water.

Dagur dragged me against him with a rough, fond move, and I can still hear his roaring voice as he vowed that, since we had helped to gather the food, there was no way we would lift a single finger to cook it, and that it had to be brought to us.

"And quickly, for that lad is done for!"

He brushed my shoulder affectionately, and I rested my head against his broad arm, smiling at his outburst. I fell asleep long before the food was brought, propped up against Dagur's arm, my lips half-parted and the grip around my glass slackening slowly.

Dagur took it off my hands and gently shook me awake so that I could eat. I remember that meal through the haze of sleep – I think I did not even finish my plate, handing it to Dagur before lying down on the ground, resting my head against his massive thigh.

"Shame for the cake...", he teased me, ruffling my hair, but I barely heard him, falling asleep almost at once.

 _I have to tell Frerin about that lock-keeper – I have to tell him how he spat out those leaves and managed to miss the water..._

Such were my thoughts as I fell asleep, and Dagur said I laughed, once, before my breath became slow and even, and I oblivious to everything around me – the talking, the heat of the flames, and above all, the still uncertain future of the next, hard weeks.

Hard they would be indeed, but that night I slept – a Dwarfling among warriors, exhausted yet not entirely without hope, or shelter.

That night I slept.

* * *

 **Neo-Khuzdûl translations** :

\- _marlel_ : love of all loves, Dis' nickname for Thorin.

\- _nadnith_ : young boy

\- _mamarlûna :_ she who is loved, Thorin's nickname for Dis.

 _\- kamnûl 'urmarum udu 'ihan_ : dirty canal wormling, more exactly "dirty tiny worm from a lesser River"...


	3. Chapter 3

**The King of Carven Stone : Part III**

 **Through Ice and Fire (Exile)**

 **3.**

Days had turned into weeks, and weeks into a month. It had been one month exactly since the Dragon's attack, the moon was proof of it – I could see its rounded shape high above me, crowning the dark sky and softly shining down upon the tents. Yet this month had seemed like a decade to me.

How cruel time can be, running like sand grains between our fingers when we desperately want it to stand still – and seeming endless when we dream to call it past... Even now that my moments here are numbered, time remains ruthless. I fell only seconds ago, I am sure of it, the clouds above have not even stirred, and yet I have gone through endless memories, almost forgetting the searing pain in my chest, the weight of all those years of care and hardship...

I was standing outside the tent, that night, looking at the moon, remembering what I was doing the last time I had seen it like this – I had been sitting on my bed, close to the windowsill, using the moonlight to finish the chapter I was reading. I had raced through the accounts of Borin's travels, fascinated by that Dwarf who had been so far away and had returned with so much knowledge. And then I had rested my head against my pillow, looking at the shapes the moon was weaving on my blanket, dreaming of the day I was going to travel too – and perhaps write about what I had seen.

How innocent and treasured I had been...

It had been four weeks. Four, hard weeks on a seemingly endless road, and I did not feel like writing anything down, not even if I had been gifted with ink and pen. This luxury was not even to be thought of, and my tale was a plain one: a tale of hunger and exile.

We had followed the River, and there had been days where we had found some work indeed – in forges of Men mostly, for there was always a blacksmith in their towns, and hard work to do.

I would go with the other Dwarves, every time, because I could not bear to stay in the camp during the day – there were too many sorrows to be witnessed, too many sick, weak, exhausted Dwarves, too many hungry Dwarflings...

I could not handle this, I was not like Frerin or Dís – where they gathered their strength and their kindness I did not know, they managed to find a gentle word for everyone, to comfort those who were ailing and the Dwarflings that were crying. They were so full of light, such a treasure to their people, I saw them summon smiles on faces that had forgotten they could shine...

Where they passed, sorrow seemed to vanish for a moment – they were the sunshine of our kin, so loving and so loved. But I... I had no smiles to bestow, no light to give. To see how they all suffered – old warriors and Dwarrowdams that should have ended their days in peace and were now struggling with endless miles every day, Dwarflings that were too young to speak and who were already starving – it tore my soul apart, it drew me close to frenzy.

I could not find anything to say to them – I had no solace to offer. I could only work, trying to bring back some food to them, trying to ease some of their pain, but it was never enough.

It was just never enough. The food we brought back – I always thought it would last a week, the sacks were so heavy, they looked so full... and yet after two days they were empty, and none of us had ever been able to eat his fill at least for one meal.

And sometimes there was no food. Sometimes there was no village next to our camp – and then we went to sleep with empty stomachs, clinging to the hope that next day, it would be better. Next day, there would be work, plenty of work, and we would eat – but I do remember that one week there was no food for three full days.

That week we buried our first dead – Dwarves that had already been injured or ill, and had no strength left to starve. There was no Dwarfling among them, thank Mahal – I had made sure of that, I was rationing the food carefully. They were our treasure, they were our hope, they would be the last to starve – it was cruel for the wounded, but I knew it had to be so, and so did they. We had always placed children first in the Mountain, it would not change in exile.

We had buried the dead far away from the river, marking their tombs with stone. We had promised we would come back to them one day and make a proper tomb for the all the Exiled that had fallen. But their deaths weighed heavy upon me, and never left my thoughts.

The only way to forget about it for some hours lay in the forge – and to the forge I went, with Dagur, Hergíl, and Balin sometimes when he could leave my father, for Thráin was another cause of worry.

He was still beside himself – he did not seem to recognize anyone, and though he never attacked anybody after that terrible night where he had almost choked me, he was unpredictable. He would sit still, letting Dís and Frerin embrace him, braid his hair and help him fasten his arm-guards, but suddenly his gaze would change and Balin would have to hold him back, trying to calm down his anguish, and they would have to leave for fear of unsettling him.

I was the only one that could spend more than several minutes with him, except Balin and Óin – I never knew why. Perhaps it was because I was his eldest child: he remembered my mother, that was plain enough, so maybe he recalled his first-born child too... But I could never be sure, and Thráin never gave me any proof of recognizing me. He would sit close to Balin and watch me approach, kneeling next to him, trying to reach him somehow.

I did not dare to touch him – I was still feeling his hands around my throat, and Mahal forgive me, I was still scared. But I tried to reach him with my words – usually I would tell him about my day, about what I had done in the villages of Men. How Dagur had thrown himself into a temper once more, how Hergíl had braided the horses' manes in Dwarven fashion to tame them – he was not scared by their height and they loved him, it fascinated Men to see how they would bend towards him to be stroked...

But Thráin never answered, and it hurt. I knew he probably could not help it, but it hurt so much to see his unfocused gaze, to feel like I was speaking to a ghost – and my heart when wounded has always raged. I made myself believe I was angry at him, resenting his weakness, so as not to acknowledge that pain, and in the end I forgot about my own ruse.

I stopped coming to him – it had been a week since I had entered his tent to talk to him, because I had begun to hate him, hate him for the fact that he had left me alone when I needed his support so dearly.

"You are getting thin, and full of shadows...", Dís had said to me moments before, when I had refused the plate she was handing to me.

"I am not hungry", I had repeated fiercely, and she shook her head with a sigh – but what did I care, I could not eat knowing that the little ones next to me were yearning for that food, longing for more yet never daring to ask.

My grandfather had laughed at me, the other day – he had mocked me when I had come back from the forge, tired and spent, my face smeared with soot. And I had not managed to keep silent, my voice fierce and my eyes burning – his words had simply been too much.

"As long as it will bring us some supplies and some means to keep on going, I will keep humble and swarthy, grandfather, whether you like it or not."

He had caught me by the arm, I had felt his iron grip around my bones but I had withstood his angry gaze. Until he spoke, hissing the words like a curse:

"I suppose you think you are acting nobly... A true protector of Durin's folk, bringing back food, caring for everyone... But you will see their looks, you will feel their hatred, once they will starve. Kindness, selflessness, that's the surest way to lose your crown. They will feast upon you, they will break you – it has already begun."

I had freed myself from his grasp, horror-struck by his words, and had staggered back.

I had not eaten that day – I just could not bring myself to eat after those terrible words, and today I had also refused my share. I knew it was wrong, I knew I was losing weight, I had just carved another hole in my belt that was getting loose around my waist – but I could not eat. I simply could not, anxiety tightened my stomach too much.

I had left the tent and my gaze had met the moon – a full, shiny, bright moon, so unmoved by our struggles. I sat down close to the tent's entry, gazing at the sky, my arms around my knees, thinking that it had been a month, and that we had several more weeks to go.

In the end it was Frerin that coaxed some food into me. He got out of the tent, crouched in front of me with a half-filled plate and threatened me, his grey eyes ablaze:

"If you don't eat it straight away, it will land on the ground. I'll smear it, and it will be wasted. I am not joking. You should mark this day, Thorin, that's actually the first time I _ask_ you to open your mouth."

I laughed then, briefly, despite myself – it sounded rusty even to me, it had been days since I had smiled. And Frerin watched me eat, his arms folded, his gaze stern.

"There...", I said, handing the empty plate back to him. "Done, _zirak_ , no need to scowl like that.

\- I wish you would hear yourself...", Frerin said, his lips twitching slightly. "You just don't deserve me, I already told you so. Your gaze is the one full of clouds."

He had spoken the last word in Khuzdûl – _shathûr_ , and he smiled, eventually, when he saw his wordplay hit home. What a word-smith he was, that little brother of mine, what a sunshine in my clouds…

He sat down next to me and I drew my arm around him, pulling him close, for the night was cold.

"Dís is right...", Frerin said after a while, poking me in the ribs and earning a shove. "You are getting thin.

\- I always was...", I replied, looking at him, my face earnest but my eyes playful. "You are the fat one among Thráin's sons, remember?"

This time I was the one getting a shove and I let myself fall flat on my back on purpose, while Frerin sat himself on my chest, his knees digging in my ribs and his hands enclosing my wrists.

"So I'm fat, right?", he asked, pretending to be upset, and he lifted his body slightly before letting himself fall again on me with all his weight – and Mahal, it was not much, but I kept up the game.

"Ugh, can you tell me how I am supposed to keep food down with your Royal Fatness sitting upon my stomach?"

I grinned at him and he grinned back, his teeth pearl white in the moonlight.

"Oh there he is...", he said, sounding surprised. "I thought we had lost him, but Prince Cheerful is actually back... We have all missed his wonderful good humor, his generous smiles and the way he always manages to point out the brighter side of life..."

He was laughing softly, his hands still around my wrists, and I smiled at him, lifting my knees so that he could rest his back on them.

"I know where that one is. He's sitting on my belly, making me wish I had not eaten so much – a whole meat pie, roasted potatoes, an entire loaf of bread, and then...

\- Stop it, Thorin...", Frerin sighed, and I had to laugh – I would never have thought it, but it felt so good, joking about the food that was never going to be there even in our wildest dreams.

He freed me from his embrace and I sat up, feeling lighter in a way that had nothing to do with Frerin's small weight. We were both smiling and I was about to thank him – for having brought me food and some joy on a night where I thought I could not get any.

But I never had the time to mouth those words, because that is when the shrieking suddenly began.

Suddenly there was chaos and panic where there had been silence and peace – and the anguished cry that echoed both in Khuzdûl and Common Tongue made our limbs turn to stone for some seconds.

"Orcs! _Rakhâs_!"

They were coming. They were attacking the camp in packs, screeching, yelling, having got past our guards – they had been strangely silent, or perhaps our warriors were simply exhausted, half-starved and weary, and had missed their scouts.

Frerin had grabbed my arm, in an instinctive, frightened gesture – and that was when I moved. I could see frames fighting: the small, stout silhouettes of Dwarves again tall, dark, deathly shadows. Orcs were invading the camp, so far they had not reached our tent for it was in the centre, in the safest place, but it would only last minutes until we would be ourselves under attack.

"Frerin, we have to fight them."

I did not let him speak, I did not leave him any choice, I dragged him back into the tent where the Dwarflings had woken up, afraid by the noise and the panic outside.

"Orcs!", I hissed to Itô who had risen, always watchful, and the old Dwarrowdam tensed, her gaze bright and her face grim.

One of the Dwarflings began to cry and the others shortly followed, but I did not bother to try to comfort them, I dragged Frerin to the corner where we kept our weapons and made him pull on his chainmail, thrusting his sword into his palm.

"Thorin, I...

\- Not now, Frerin...", I replied, pulling on my own chainmail, grabbing my axe and sword and dragged him out of the tent.

"Where are you going?!"

Dís' anguished cry echoed behind us but I did not turn, I did not answer. My body was tense and wary, my heart raced but I was not afraid – not anymore, I was aware of every move and every sound around me in a way I had never experienced before.

I could hear the screams, the clanging of blades and the anguished cries – the cries were the worst, my hands balled themselves around my weapons, and it was then I saw them.

They were coming, they were running right towards us – heavy, tall Orcs, their faces horribly distorted, fierce, like demons, dressed in iron breastplates and armed with daggers, swords and axes. They were growling, their eyes bright in the moonlight, baring their teeth as they did so, and I could hear Frerin's gasp behind me.

"You guard the tent's entrance, Frerin. You don't stir – do you understand, you don't move, you don't let them get in. They won't get past you, I'll make sure of it – I will shield you."

I whispered those words to him and then I raised my weapons. I screamed, too, a hoarse, terrible scream to give me courage, to give me strength, to frighten those beasts away...

I pictured Frerin behind me – my tiny, golden-haired brother, guarding the tent that shielded my sister – and anger rose, setting my Soul ablaze, fuelling my body with a fire that was stronger than any fear.

My blade met theirs with a clanging sound, and after that – after that I have no precise memory. I remember their faces, plainly enough, the foul stench of their bodies and the terrible smell of their blood – because I made them bleed, I made them bleed so dearly, hitting them with axe and sword.

I was small compared to them, I was light and swift – and I had been well-trained in Erebor, despite the fact that I had never fought for real after that day – that day with Dwalin.

I was avoiding their blows, they were dreadful aimers and I knew how to shift my weight so as to avoid their blades – I would turn aside and hit them, aiming for the weak places in their breast-plates: the armpits and the groin.

And I killed several, but they were so many, and I was small, weak and ill-fed – I could not hold them all back, and soon enough I heard a terrified cry behind me that made my heart stand still.

Frerin was standing where I had left him, both hands clinging to his sword, facing two fierce-looking Orcs that were aiming straight for him. He was staring at them wide-eyed, and I heard him whisper:

"Please don't do that. Please go away..."

What was he thinking of, he had to raise his sword, he had to fight them, he had to defend hims-...

A thump, and a sickening pain in my head. The second where I had turned to look back had been used by one of the Orcs I had been facing, and the blow on my temple kicked me off my feet.

I fell to the ground, hitting it with my back, and I heard Frerin scream – but Dwarven skull is thick and it was long past, the time where a single blow could knock me out...

"Frerin, you have to fight them!", I yelled, and then I thrust my sword deep into the belly of the foul Orc that had bent upon me, thinking he could finish me off when I had my Frerin to shield, my little brother to save – how dared he think he could just get past me like that...

The fierce Dwarven battle cry that echoed behind me made me flinch and wonder how Frerin could have voiced it – I avoided only by inches the dead Orc's body that was oozing foul blood, and some of the black, foetid liquid fell upon my chest and legs. I pushed the corpse away with a kick and got back to my feet, using my axe to hit the next one, in the arm, in the thigh – whatever my blade could reach, and I dealt each blow with another scream.

And when I finally got rid of the group that had attacked me, when I finally could turn safely, dreading what I would see... It was then I saw her, and I would never forget that sight.

It was Itô who had screamed. Itô who was wielding a broad, battle axe I had never seen before, Itô who was fighting like a Dwarf, despite her old age, despite her robes that swirled around her ankles and must have restrained her in her moves.

Her hair flew around her as she fought – she had already loosened it for her night rest, and it was still a mane, a proud, beautiful white mane that reached to her waist. Her eyes were bright, her mouth grim and I could see the tattoo she had between her eyes – a tattoo that attested she was a warrior's wife and widow, and even more.

She was a warrior herself. She wielded her axe in a way I had never seen before, she wielded it as if it was a shiny torch, weaving curves and lines for Durin's day – Itô fought just like she danced.

She uttered her battle cry again and it was high – it was a terrible, threatening screech, and I could see some of the Orcs draw back. She was shielding Frerin with her body – he had not stirred, he still stared at the scene wide-eyed and pale, so helpless, so shocked.

Itô snarled and the Orcs drew back straight towards me – and Mahal, what a glorious feeling it was to be able to finish them off. I thrust my sword, I wielded my axe – I was no dancer, I was a killer, fierce and ruthless, drenched in sweat and foul black blood.

I do not remember when it stopped. I had forgotten about everything else except my axe and sword – I was not thinking about Frerin anymore, I knew that Itô was shielding him, I knew I could give in to battle's rage without restraint.

But somehow it stopped, and we were left standing while the Orc pack fled. Our warriors had fought bravely, though several had fallen, and what remained of the Orc pack ran away screaming in fear, and as dawn rose we were left standing in the camp, gazing at what was left after the battle.

There was blood everywhere. Foul, black blood covered the ground, had splashed upon our tents, and there was Dwarven blood also, for some of us had died, and Hergíl among them.

There would be no more horse braids to be woven – no more quiet talking and gentle smiles while fastening the shoes we had made together on their hooves...

I would learn later that he had died – I would learn later that they had all fought, my grandfather, Balin, Dagur, Hergíl... and above all my father. For Thráin's memory was not shut to Orc cries, and he had reacted as soon as he had heard them utter their first shriek. My father had grabbed his axe and had run out to fight – our victory belonged also to him, for there was no fiercest warrior, and that night Thráin ran berserk.

But of all this I heard later. As I was left standing, my hands still gripping my sword and axe, my breath short and my body covered with blood that was not mine, I only knew it was over.

The terrible foes I had faced were dead on the ground, their faces lifeless and their eyes dull – I had killed them. It was over, and as that realisation kicked in, I suddenly felt myself stagger. I thrust my axe in the ground and leant upon it, my breath heavy and my body sore.

A soft moan made me turn, and I saw Itô holding Frerin. He had dropped his sword and was throwing up, his small body heaving violently in her arms, and Itô had gathered his hair, her hand upon his chest, her moves gentle and soothing.

She saw me advance towards him and shook her head with a warning look, and I realized then how frightening I had to seem, covered in blood, reeking with sweat... I turned, I ran to the river, taking my weapons with me, and as I did so I saw how many wounded there were, how terrible the raid had been, leaving us victorious yet broken.

I pulled off my chainmail, I rinsed the blood from the meshes and from my blades and dried them carefully. I took off my jerkin too – the leather was bloodied, but it had not reached my tunic. I pulled it off nonetheless, I washed the whole upper part of my body: my face, my hair, my chest, my arms... I rinsed the blood away and then I pulled on my tunic again – only my tunic, the rest I carried with me, I would see to it later, there were other priorities.

The Dwarflings were huddled together when I came back into the tent, my hair drenched and my lips blue with cold. Some were crying, but most of them were silent, looking at Itô who still held Frerin in her arms, and at Dís who was gently stroking his hair.

"Thorin...", he kept whispering, his face pressed against Itô's chest. "I want Thorin... I want Thorin... I want Thorin..."

Dís looked at me and there was so much despair in her gaze, so much sadness – what was there left to do or say? I laid down my weapons and my heavy chainmail, and then I joined them. I reached for Dís' face, caressing her cheek with my hand. I looked at Itô, our eyes locked – we gazed at each other silently, knowing that there had been a special bond between us, the bond of those who fight together – and I bowed, thanking her silently, before I lay my palm on Frerin's back.

"I am here, Frerin. I am right here."

Itô gently let go of him, she and Dís withdrew to the other end of the tent, trying to give us some privacy, and Frerin reached for me, desperately, clinging to the back of my tunic, almost tearing at the fabric. He was shaking – he was so young, and he was breathing so fast, I could feel his chest quiver against mine.

He was not crying – he was not making a sound except hurried, shallow breathing noises, and they broke my heart. I held him against me, I brushed his soaked, light locks aside, trying to make him look at me, but his face was averted, his cheek pressed against my shoulder.

He was not even twenty – he should never have had to draw a sword, to fight like that, especially not there, in cold, foreign lands, half-starved and afraid. He was still a child, and I had made him act like a warrior – I had made him face things he never should have seen.

" _Kudzaduz_...", I whispered, using the fond word I only called him when he was ill or low. "Please, look at me."

My hands brushed his back, the curve of his spine, the muscles of his chest and waist – he was so tiny, so slender... I bent towards him, and kissed whatever I could reach of his face: his ear and his cheekbone, burning hot and sweaty. It had been years since I had done that – we embraced each other, we grasped each other's arms, we pushed each other, earned shoves or blows, but Dís was the one getting kisses and bestowing them.

Yet that night, that terrible night, I bent towards my brother and kissed him, because he had no one else to cling to. There was no one there to try to remove his fear. There was only me, and I had been the one who had placed him in this terrible situation.

Frerin's breathing hitched when I touched him, yet slowly became more even. He was still shaking, but his hands were loosening their grip around me.

"Look at me, Frerin..."

He shook his head, his face still hidden in my shoulder, and I felt my throat tighten.

"Please forgive me... I know I asked too much, I know I had no right to push you like that. You should not have had to fight, I should have made sure... Please forgive me... Frerin... please... Don't turn your face from me..."

A sob escaped Frerin's lips – a sound at last, and I held him while he cried, and terribly silent tears they were, so quiet and desperate.

"Why... are you... so kind to me?"

His words took me aback – I froze, still holding him.

"I failed, I am so... so weak. I am useless... I cannot... fight, I am so... I am such a failure. You should be... ashamed of me..."

My grasp around him tightened – I could hardly believe what he was voicing.

"I will never be ashamed of you. You held your ground, you did not stir. You were the one guarding the tent's entrance, and they knew it. I was supposed to shield you. I am the one who failed.

\- They... they struck you down because... because you looked at me. If I had... If I had been quicker... stronger... But I was so scared... I could not move... I was so scared to lose you... I don't want to... lose you..."

He was crying so hard now that I could only hold him tighter.

"They were so many, Frerin, and it was night... Of course you were scared... I was too – I was terrified. I was as scared as you.

\- But you fought well... You were so fast, you did not look afraid..."

He raised his face to look at me – he lifted his face at last and I met his grey, clear gaze, still bright with tears. He has stopped shaking, he was calmer now, and it was all that mattered to me. Calming him down.

I could not tell him about that rage that had spread through my limbs like a glowing torch – the hatred for those foul beasts born and bred in the shadows, only raised to kill and pillage. That anger that had given me so much strength, quickening my pulse, and in which I had revelled because it had fanned my courage – it had to remain unvoiced. It was the darkest and the most blazing part of my Soul, and I could not share it with Frerin.

It would only frighten him, he would not understand. He was thinking too much, caring too much – his soul was like a crystal lamp, its light clear and pure, without any room for hatred and wrath. And I did not want him to change – I loved him, I loved him so dearly that it hurt to look at him.

"I was fast because they were heavy. Those breastplates and weapons they carry, they are ill-made and only slow them down. Their bodies are not swift, their brain is sluggish and they only think about their own safety – they do not care for each other, they do not regroup, so it is not so difficult to break through them, actually.

\- You are so brave...", Frerin whispered, and he felt for the bruise on my temple, his fingertips brushing my skin.

How little I deserved both his praise and his concern – and yet I managed to smile at him.

"I have a thick skull. You are the smart, inventive, kind, wonderful one among Thráin's sons..."

His gaze clouded and he let go of me.

"Do not say that. Don't lie to make me feel better.

\- I don't. I am not lying to you..."

I was speaking so low that he had to stay close to me to hear me.

"You have so much more goodness than me. That's what held you back, even with those creatures, and it does not make you a coward at all. Don't lose that treasure, _kudzaduz_."

He did not answer. He laid his face against my neck again, his arms circling my chest. And I brushed his back with my palms, gently, feeling my own tension ebb slowly.

"You are shaking", Frerin whispered after a while, and I was indeed.

I always have, after battle, after those raging hours where my body fought and my mind only followed instinct. Never before, or during the fight – always afterwards. Like a flame suddenly extinguished once danger is past, for Mahal does not bestow His blessings freely. I learnt to hide it quickly enough – no one would have followed me had they witnessed that, and it never lasted long.

I would make sure to go away or to keep to myself while the battle's aftermath was taking its toll, and no one ever saw me like this.

Except Frerin, on that cold, forlorn night. I went on brushing his back, holding him close, but I was shivering – not with cold or fear, but with the awareness of being alive still.

He did not breathe a word, he did not even move. We both stayed as we were, knowing that we were exactly as afraid and helpless, that we were the same deep inside, despite our differences. And Frerin knew that I could never, ever allow myself to show the fear I had temporarily held at bay without conquering it, so he held me as I held him, until my shivers ebbed.

Weary. I was so weary, and yet I could not rest. There were so many to tend to – the dead and the wounded, and those who were too afraid to stir, for we had to move on.

But we Dwarves know about battles, and facing Orcs. There were many who had fought endless times in their lives, and they knew how to take care of the dead and wounded, how to handle the terrible situation that follows every battle.

Everyone knew what was to be done. The Orcs' corpses we piled, leaving them to the crows – and may they have feasted upon their rotten flesh. The injured we gathered in a tent once more, and how hard Óin and our women strived that morning to tend to their many wounds so that they could keep moving...

And the dead we buried – because once more there was no possibility to offer them a proper tomb. There was no cave, no stone, only a few forlorn rocks... and there was no time.

I had pulled on my jerkin and my chainmail once more. The air was biting cold, and it did hardly matter now how dirty and stained my clothes might be – they were shielding me from the icy wind, as I stood there in the silver mist that had risen after that deathly night, clouding the hills with grey.

I watched our fallen warriors being laid close to each other in the earth while a huge rock was being dragged above their tomb, so as to make sure they would sleep under stone until we could come back and build them a proper grave.

And as I watched Dagur and Nár carve the sacred runes into the dark, hard stone, I suddenly heard my grandfather's voice.

Not shouting, not even speaking – so low, so soft. His lips moved and I heard him sing for the first time in years, his gaze upon the dark rock that covered the twenty Dwarves that had fallen, his robes still slick with Orc blood he had drawn, for he had fought among them:

.

" _The world is grey, the Mountains old_

 _The forge's fire is ashen cold_

 _No harp is wrung, no hammer falls_

 _The darkness dwells in Durin's halls..."_

.

His blue eyes were lost to the world and I know that he was not thinking of Durin – he was seeing Erebor, Erebor that he had strived so hard to rebuilt and that was now destroyed, in ashes, leaving our people exposed. Vulnerable. Dying.

.

" _The shadow lies upon his tomb_

 _In Moria, in Khazad-Dûm..."_

.

Thrór's voice broke and I saw him stagger – and suddenly realized that he was grim, hard, spiteful and proud, but also old, weary and desperate. He had been through that before, a thousand times, and now that his hair was grey and should have grown white in peace and wealth, there he was, standing once more before a grave, without shelter – without anything.

I stepped up to him – I knew I could, I knew he would not push me away this time, I knew he would not harm me, because of the grief that bound us that day.

I came close to him and took his hand – his broad, strong hand that still knew how to wield sword and axe when it came to defend his people, and how slender did my fingers look in my king's grasp...

Thrór turned his face towards me, and I saw doubt darken his gaze – what was I doing, what did I want, why did I touch him, who was I to him... I saw all this, in his clouded eyes, and I softly ended the song for him.

.

" _But still the sunken stars appear_

 _In dark and windless Mirrormere_

 _There lies his crown in water deep_

 _Till Durin wakes again from sleep."_

.

He looked at me – pale dawn meeting night-blue, recognizing each other at last, and then he smiled. A soft, sad smile that was heartbreaking but made him look more himself than in years.

"Not my crown, Thorin... Not mine..."

He brushed the back of my hand with his thumb before letting go, turning his back on me, walking away quietly – no hard words came from him that day.

I watched him go, knowing exactly how desperate he felt inside. And it was then I felt Dís fingers on my arm.

"Thorin... You have to come – it's _'adad_."

I tensed, dreading the worst, and she quickly added:

"He's not injured – he is over there. He won't drop his weapons, we all tried, me and Frerin, even Balin, but he doesn't listen and he's... he's frightening everyone.

\- _Mahal…!_ "

The anguished cry that had escaped my breast hovered for a second between us and Dís knew then. She knew how close I was to break down myself – I could not be everywhere, shielding the Dwarflings, comforting my brother, standing by my grandfather, and mastering my father's madness.

"I know...", she whispered, and there were tears in her eyes. "I am so sorry. We tried, we all tried, but he's not to be reasoned with – and you are the only one who manages to speak to him."

I shook my head, my breath getting shallow as I tried to fight down what I felt – and failed. I raised a hand to my mouth, pressing my knuckles against my teeth so as not to scream aloud.

"I know, Thorin...", Dís said, circling my waist with her arms.

"Mahal, Dís...", I whispered. "I hate him. I hate him so much. I hate what he is doing to us."

She did not answer, she did not judge, she only held me tighter. And after a while I dropped my hand, gazing down at her, my eyes still burning with unshed tears.

"Where is he?", I asked, and Dís took my hand to lead me to him.

A frightening sight it was indeed. My father was standing on one of the hills, his gaze fierce and his hair loose in the biting wind. His grip around his sword and axe was firm and he was facing those I held dear, his posture wary and his gaze bright and mad.

Frerin, Balin – even Dagur, they had tried to reach him and he had dragged his sword, wielded his axe, baring his teeth at them, threatening them with both his weapons and his glare.

"Don't go there", Dagur said. "He's raging, he's mad. We'll have to wait until he gets exhausted.

\- We don't have the time", I replied.

I whispered something to Balin, and then I walked up the hill. I went empty-handed, but not unarmed – my axe was fastened on my back and my sword hung at my side.

Thráin watched me arrive, his breath getting quicker, and I saw him shift position slightly – not defensive anymore, but ready to attack.

"' _Adad_ , if you hit me, I will hit back."

My voice rung clear and I saw him blink, taken aback by my resolute tone, and probably wondering who I was, and why I kept walking straight towards him.

He bared his teeth – what a fierce warrior he looked, his tattoos changing shape as he growled, but I was not afraid, I was just desperate and so, so weary.

"I won't warn you again, ' _adad_."

I was only several steps away from him when he moved. He ran towards me, raising his blade, and I parried his blow, drawing my sword with both my hands.

He had struck so fiercely that I felt the blow reverberate through my whole arm, reaching my shoulder. But he had not aimed, not really, he had only lashed out, probably because I was puzzling him, while I definitely wanted my blow to reach him. I parried his attack, and while my sword was still against his blade, my foot reached out, hitting his stomach with all my might.

He huffed, his breath failing him, and I heard someone scream behind me – Dís, or perhaps Frerin, I would not know. I turned down Thráin's blade and then I took some steps back.

"How dare you...", I said, my voice still loud, and unwavering. "I am your son. Thorin."

He was still searching for air and his grip tightened again around his weapons, but he suddenly seemed confused.

" _Dashatzû_ ", I repeated, and as I switched to Khuzdûl my voice suddenly broke – it was too intimate, too close.

"I don't want to hurt you. But you have to stop. Drop your weapons, ' _adad_. Don't force me to make you drop them, because I will."

I sheathed my sword again, still facing my father. We both were breathing fast and our eyes were locked, and I could see him waver, frowning slightly, his fingers slackening slightly around his weapons.

"Thorin..."

Balin's voice echoed softly behind me and I let out a deep breath.

"Put it down there."

I did not turn to see if he obeyed – I knew he would, and I could not leave Thráin out of sight. It was cold, so cold – there was frost on the ground, and my breath swirled before me.

"' _Adad_... Drop your weapons. It is safe. Come and look, come and listen – there is no need of blades for that..."

I took some steps back and there it was. My mother's harp, wrapped in faded black velvet that still smelt of smoke and ashes. I slowly extended my hand and touched the fabric, my gaze still fixed upon my father. I started to remove one of the laces, my moves cautious, and I saw my father take a tentative step towards me.

"Come, ' _adad_..."

The fabric fell to the ground with a soft move and the harp was bared. Its beautiful, dark wood had withstood Fire unharmed, and the silver runes that were carved upon it shone as if it had just been polished.

My hand felt for the wood and I followed its graceful curve, stroking the harp as if to tame it, and I saw my father shiver slightly. The fierce expression had left his face and he looked guarded, yet unsure. I put one knee on the ground and drew the harp against my shoulder, watching him approach.

"Come, ' _adad_. You can hear the wind playing in the strings. It is just as she said, ' _adad_ – the wind never howls, we simply do not understand his words..."

My body tensed when he came close enough to touch it – he was still armed, but his weapons were facing earth and he did not seem to think about them anymore. I was holding the harp against me like a bow, my fingers not touching the chords, resting on the wood.

Thráin stopped and endless moments passed before he dared to move. I heard the dull thud of his axe when it hit the ground, as he extended his hand to touch the wood, caressing it just as I had done.

"Come closer, ' _adad_. Listen..."

I bent my head softly – I could hear it indeed, the breeze's soft, strangely harmonious lament, going up and down the tone-ladder.

Another soft noise, metal hitting stone. Thráin had dropped his sword and came even closer. He rounded me, standing right behind me – and though I was frightened, so much more than when I had faced the Orcs, I did not move, I just turned to look at him.

"You have to bend..."

His eye searched mine, and then he bent, slowly, his face inches from mine. One of his dark locks fell upon my shoulder and I could feel the heat that was radiating from him – he was so strong, there was so much fire in his soul still... He bent, and then suddenly his body tensed, for the wind had risen again, breathing his song on the chords once more.

I heard him exhale, painfully, and then I watched him come even closer, until his forehead touched the wood. He stood like this for minutes, not moving, only listening. And then he stirred again.

His hands that had been clinging to weapons, sowing death and wrath – his hands searched for mine. He laid his palms upon my forearms and it was all I could do not to flinch, then he enclosed my wrists with his fingers, cautiously.

His skin was so warm – it had been weeks since he had touched me like this, gently, aware of his moves. He circled my wrists and then he placed my hands upon the strings, one after the other.

" _Ilfim_... Play..."

I had a start when I heard him speak – he had not said a word for so long, and nothing coherent ever since the Mountain fell.

" _Ilfim_ , _magabshûna_."

 _Magabshûna_... _Magabshûna_ , not _magabshûn_... I closed my eyes, I rested my head against the harp, well-knowing who he was confusing me with. The dark, rich wood met my bruise, and the pain was welcome.

His palms still rested upon my wrists, and his fingers brushed my forearms again, getting up to my shoulders, gently gathering my hair.

I shuddered – I wanted to believe he was caring for me, touching me, loving me, but he was seeing another frame, looking at another being, and I was lost in his embrace.

My fingers found the chords, somehow. The strings were not in tune, and my hands were frozen, for they were bare and I had not moved them for minutes.

But I played, a fragment only, the one that came to my mind, my left hand striking two deep chords while the right one slowly ran through the notes that matched the words.

.

" _No harp is wrung, no hammer falls_

 _The darkness dwells in Durin's halls."_

.

After that my hands fell to my side. My head was still resting against the harp, but I could not play anymore, I could not move. I felt my father's embrace being removed gently, Balin was taking him away from me and he was not struggling. He was walking away, still looking at me, while I was left kneeling next to the harp, listening to the wind's moan upon the strings.

"Come, Thorin. Get up, lad. Let us leave that wretched place."

Dagur was crouching next to me and was gently shaking my shoulder, his blue gaze sad and dark. I looked at him, but I could not move – I could not even remember how it was supposed to be done.

"Mahal, laddie, say something."

But I stayed mute – I could not speak either, there was nothing left in me. I could still sense my father's touch, so intimate yet never meant for me. It had felt so wrong, so forbidden – he should never have touched me like that, gathering my hair, stroking my skin like a lover... We were both tainted. And I felt so soiled, so broken.

I had faced battle's horrors, I had been drenched with foul blood I had drawn, but it was my father's touch who broke me.

Dagur hoisted me up, wrapping my arms around his neck, and carried me down the hill. He took me to the riverbank and bathed my face, and the water's icy bit on my skin made me flinch.

"Feeling alive again, lad?"

I was – if you could call that alive. I raised a shaky hand to my face, feeling for my bruise, still bent upon the riverbank. I had committed something unforgivable, hitting my own father – and Dagur had witnessed it.

I knew how it must have looked, the way Thráin had touched me – he had spoken softly, perhaps they had not heard and thought he had recognized me, but I knew better.

I pulled up my sleeves, despite the cold, I thrust my arms into the River, desperately trying to wash away the lingering sensation of his hands, and my skin was red and sore when Dagur pulled me away from the water, his broad arm around my chest.

I struggled, I lashed out and hit his breast with my fists, I threw my body against his massive frame, trying to break free. I never let out a sound, and Dagur did not defend himself, he only held me, trying to keep me from hurting myself – but I was bruised and my body ached when I finally stopped struggling.

My arms were dragged against my chest, a screen between Dagur's body and mine. And yet there was no way he would harm me. I had sparred against him so many times – he had trained me, he had taught me how to rely upon my body. Never would he have dared to cross that boundary my father had crushed down in his madness, in this insane delusion that destroyed everything around him.

"Come now, lad...", Dagur said gently, his arm still around me. "Come now... You will be fine. You will be fine."

He repeated the words several times, like a promise, and I – I just gave in to exhaustion, finally leaning into his arms. I wanted to believe him so badly. I wanted to believe Dagur who had never betrayed my trust, who had always clearly voiced where he stood, what to expect of him and why. There was not an inch of insanity in him, and I clung to it, I clung to his words so as not to drown.

"Come, lad. I'll carry you for a while. Look at you, haven't I taught you not to waste your strength like that? You should have known better, laddie – I would never dream of hurting you.

\- I know...", I whispered, and when he lifted me I did not struggle.

He placed me on his back – I could feel the broad blade of his axe against my face: it was no safe place for a Dwarfling, but it was the safest for me. I rested my cheek against it, my arms around Dagur's neck, my fingers closed upon the broad braids of his beard and my thighs on his strong forearms.

He lifted me just like that, and had a low grunt.

"Mahal, laddie. We really have to get some food into you."

I could have told him to remember we hardly had any food left, but I did not. I closed my eyes and just let myself be carried – I would be fine. I had to be.

I have only scarce memories of this day – the hard, cold touch of the axe's blade against my cheek, and Dagur's hair, smelling of leather, of iron dust, of hard work and steadiness.

I remember looking at my boots, at the tarnished silver on its tips, at the leather that was faded and worn-out, I remember thinking how small they looked compared to Dagur's, and how incredibly tiny Dís' must actually be.

Those few impressions never faded, yet the rest of the day has vanished in my mind. I must have slept, I probably slumbered most of the time, my fingers buried in Dagur's hair – it was so cold, so cold outside, and my chainmail felt icy against my back.

I do remember wondering – dreading when it would come, the moment where Dagur would be fed up with carrying me, when someone would come, asking something of me once more. But no one came, and he never put me down, giving me these hours of respite, allowing me for a single, short day to be what I really was back then – a Dwarfling dealing with issues that were far beyond my age and strength.

And when he freed himself from my embrace, putting me down on the cold ground, he did so gently. He wiped off the frost that had begun to cover my chainmail, and then he took my fingers into his own and rubbed them, for the blood had frozen in my hands.

It was time to unfold the tents again, it was time for everyone to try to get some rest – and for me to leave the shelter of Dagur's arms. I don't recall what gave me the strength to do so, I just know that I did it somehow, because I had to – because I had no choice.

But I do remember the soft, cold touch that met my face when I finally rose to my feet, walking up to my people again.

Snow. Snow had reached us at last.

* * *

 **Neo-Khuzdûl translations** :

\- _The world is grey, the Mountains old..._ is the last part of _Song of Durin's awakening_ , a poem written by Tolkien.

 _\- zirak_ : its first sense is ' _spike_ ' but it's also short for _Zirakzigil_ , one of the three Mountains of Khazad-Dûm. Thorin however uses the word in its third sense: ' _master, presiding officer_ ' to mock Frerin.

\- _shathûr_ : it means ' _clouds_ '. But it's also short for _Bundushathûr_ , another of Khazad-Dûm's Mountains – so Frerin is turning back his jest to Thorin.

 _\- Rakhâs_ : Orcs

\- _kudzaduz_ : tiny golden coin, Thorin's nickname for Frerin

\- _dashatzû_ : your son

\- _Ilfim, magabshûna_ : play, you who are treasured. And there Thráin is addressing a woman – for a boy it would have been ' _magabshûn_ '.


	4. Chapter 4

**The King of Carven Stone : Part III**

 **Through Ice and Fire (Exile)**

 **4.**

Snow – its coldness, its inexorable falling, burying Nature, rocks and mountains under its white cloak. Every winter I would watch it fall and feel only anxiety and dread, deep down in my Soul.

Some might indeed find beauty in that dazzling silence, clothing everything that is bare and hard. The promise of a new beginning, perhaps, still asleep under the heavy snowflakes and only waiting to awake.

Yet it has always frightened me, since that one winter – one of the worst in my life. So cold, so unforgiving, so hard...

So hopeless.

"Balin, why did you lie to me?"

My voice was low and soft, I had no wish to upset him, and Balin raised his head to look at me, his gaze questioning.

"When did I ever lie to you, Thorin?"

I was sitting on a low stone wall, behind the forge of the small village we had entered that morning while night was still clinging to our tents, searching for work, for food – for shelter. At least that was how the forge's blazing fire seemed to me, compared to the endless extent of the snow-white hills, so cold, so barren.

The water had frozen on the forge's roof, hanging down in sharp, pointed stalactites, like daggers, and I looked at those icy fangs, thinking that the winter was the mightiest foe we would ever have to face, and that I was helpless.

I had burnt my palm, minutes ago – I had misjudged the weight of the piece I was supposed to carve, and it had slipped. But even though I could feel pain in my hand, I still yearned for heat – I who had faced the Dragon, who had sensed flames, ashes and embers, and witnessed what it could do.

Heat hurt, but it did not turn your body to ice – it was not insidious, it was not as slow and treacherous as the cold.

Balin was rubbing my palm with snow and was tying a wet cloth around my hand and wrist. He finished his knot, his hands deft and precise as ever, and then he looked at me.

He was standing, and I still sitting. I had felt light-headed ever since we had left the camp, I had not spoken more than a few words, I felt too weak for that. We were running out of food again and none of us had eaten for two days. My stomach had hurt, at first, as it had during that first period of fasting, two weeks ago, but now I was only feeling cold and faint. I had not underestimated that weight – I simply was not strong enough to lift it anymore. And Balin knew.

He laid his hands upon my shoulders, gently brushing back my braids – I had not taken the pains to plait them again this morning. Actually I could not remember the last time I had taken some minutes to try to look as I should, because I did not know who I was anymore.

I had been a Prince, a son, a brother. I still was. But what had made me a Prince had crumbled, had been taken. Thráin was lost to me – even though he was not raging anymore, for the snow seemed to soothe him, appeasing some of the desperate fire that had been raging in his gaze.

And my siblings – I felt estranged from them, ever since that battle night where I had been forced to become a fighter, ever since that morning where I had had to be stronger than my father.

Dís still touched me, she embraced me and pressed her small body against mine during the night, trying to get warm – or perhaps trying to shield me from nightmares, because I was waking up at the slightest sound. A Dwarfling's moan became an Orc's cry, the howl of the wind outside turned into the foreshadowing of the Dragon's breath, and I jerked up, every night, drenched in sweat despite of the cold, while Dís held me, gazing at me with sad, ageless eyes.

And Frerin – he was avoiding me. He was avoiding everyone, even the Dwarflings, even Itô, and especially me. I had tried to make him talk to me, I had held him against me endless times, I had even alluded again to that night, telling him once more that there had been no shame in freezing, that I loved him, that I was proud of him...

I had been desperate enough to acknowledge that, but Frerin's eyes stayed hollow and full of self-hatred. He shook his head, he pushed me away – his sunny face was clouded, and it was my fault. I had placed him in a situation that he never should have faced, I had made him feel shameful when he only ought to rejoice to be still alive...

And I hated myself so much for it. I should have made sure – I should never have asked him to stand behind me. Dwalin was the one that could have fought next to me, Dwalin had already been at my side in battle, and I was missing him so much, I had needed him so much that night that I had just tried to replace him with Frerin.

What kind of a brother did that make me...?

What kind of a brother was I, telling Frerin how much I loved him, how proud I was of him, without ever telling him the real truth: that I needed him desperately at my side, that I could not bear the fact that he turned himself from me, fleeing to my father's tent every night...?

Because that is where I had drawn him – he even preferred Thráin's madness to me. He would curl himself against my father's chest, not caring for that danger, simply parting Thráin's arms and closing his eyes, and he was deaf to my words when I tried to bring him back to us. Back to me.

In the end I had brought myself to touch Thráin's shoulder. I had made him look at me, and I could see he recognized something in my gaze – of course, I had my mother's eyes, everyone had always told me so. Frerin was the one who had my father's gaze, and while my brother's used to be clear and bright, Thráin's had always been clouded. Now they even shared that.

"If you hurt him, ' _adad_... If you dare to touch him... I will kill you."

I had whispered the words, my eyes locked with my father's, and Thráin did not stir. It was Frerin who moved, tightening his embrace around my father's chest and burying his face in his neck.

"Just leave us alone, Thorin."

And I had, suddenly feeling cold and empty. I had left that tent, and with it, everything that had still defined me. The loving brother, the respectful son – I had killed them along with those Orcs. Now the only thing that mattered was to keep going. To reach the Iron Hills before the snow buried us alive. To achieve at least that.

"What makes you think I lied, lad?"

Balin's gentle voice startled me, my thoughts had begun to drift off, I was feeling so faint and cold... His face was pale and worn-out, but his brown eyes looked at me, steady and loving as always. So warm.

"You always said... You said there was a balance in this world. You said Mahal knew how to weigh our deeds... That if we tried hard, and were good... and tried to do some good... that it would always come back somehow..."

I was whispering now, and he had to crouch and face me to understand my words.

"But it doesn't. There is no good coming back, it only gets worse... The Dwarflings, Balin... They are dying..."

He circled my waist and pulled me close, while I rested my face on his chest. It was true. They were dying. Slowly, silently, one after the other – we had already lost five of them, their small bodies unable to bear both cold and starvation.

Sometimes they wept for hours – a feeble, wailing sound that got weaker and weaker until it stopped. And one morning we had found two lying lifeless in their blankets, their bodies huddled against each other – so small, so cold.

Itô had looked at me – she was my rock in that tent, that proud _batshûna_ who had seen so many sorrows. And then she had gently taken the bodies, carrying them to Óin – she knew I could not bring myself to touch them, she knew how guilty I felt, how desperate I was, so close to falling apart.

"They have gone to Mahal...", she had said, her voice steady, but there were silver tears on her cheeks. "The Maker has reclaimed them. We should be grateful that their sorrows here have ended."

Yet she had wept, while taking them away. She had wept because she was old, and still alive, while their lives had been taken before they had really begun. And I had just watched her go away.

"Where is Mahal, Balin?", I whispered. "Does he really care? Is he really the Maker, to let such things happen?"

Balin was stroking my hair now and how I had missed it – his embrace, his presence next to me, his comforting touch on my face that had always reminded me of home. He had spent so much time with my father, those past weeks, but now that Frerin was clinging to him, and now that Hergíl had died, we were together again – at least we were together.

I had never voiced my doubts and my despair, ever since we had left Erebor. I had tried to keep them to myself – and as the years would pass I would learn how to hold to that resolution. Mahal knows I have been called grim and stern in my life – and grim and stern I may have seemed, just like the chainmail covering the warrior's breast, concealing the desperation and doubt that lingered in my heart.

But that day I was still so young – I was still looking desperately for some justice, clinging to the extinguishing hope that it would get better, yet that flame was dying out fast.

"There is a balance, Thorin", Balin answered, and despite his own sadness his voice was unwavering. "We are just too small to fathom it."

I looked up at him – he sounded so sure, and I yearned for hope...

"Where is the balance in this? Where is Mahal, Balin?"

There were tears in my eyes but they were not flowing – I did not have enough strength left to cry, and I could feel Balin take a deep breath as his fingers brushed my shoulders.

"Do you remember those days where we would find you asleep, the crystal lamp next to you still alight because you had to finish that book before morning?"

He was smiling sadly at me and I tried to blink back my tears – why was he speaking of Erebor, why was he drawing me back to those past, happy times...?

"The lamp was still burning, but in daylight the flame was barely visible. Its light was only needed in darkest hours, and yet it did not change – it was the same regardless of time and circumstances. So, Thorin... You can look at shadows dreading their cold, and the darkness they hold. Or you can think that without them, light would never be revealed in its full shine..."

I looked up at him, and my fingers closed upon the hard leather of his jerkin – a worn-out jerkin, where the adornments had begun to fade.

"I don't see any light, Balin..."

And as I spoke out those words I suddenly acknowledged it. I was not strong enough, I could not handle this. I just wanted to be left on this stone wall to die. There was no warmth, no light, no hope in this world, there was only cold and darkness, and I had no energy, no fire left to fight it.

"Do you want to know where I see Mahal's light, Thorin?", Balin asked, and he did not even wait for my answer. "I see it in your gaze, right now and every day. I see it in the way you look at everyone, in the constant care you show us – and it is such a blazing light, Thorin, it takes so much strength and warmth to achieve what you do, even if I know you cannot see it."

There were tears in his eyes now, but he went on, his voice still clear:

"And I see it in your hands. Those nimble, small hands that work so hard and make me ashamed of not being able to spare you at least that pain. That is where I see Mahal's making, Thorin. He might seem cruel or indifferent, He might snatch lives away – but He also made you, and Frerin, and Dís, and that is why I still believe in Him. That is why I still trust Him, and still search for His light."

I was still looking at him – I could not make my heart believe his words just like this, but as he spoke I suddenly understood how strong Balin was.

His body was well-trained, he was a swift and strong warrior. His mind was sharp, and treasured so much knowledge, but above all, there was a force and fire in his heart that could not be taken away. He knew about his beliefs, he had thought about them, he had weighed the sacred words carefully before acknowledging them. He might stand before me in a worn-out jerkin, weapon-less and starved, but in that Dwarf laid treasured all the knowledge, beliefs and strength of our race.

Balin was more than my cousin, more than my father's _mamarrakhûn_ , more than a warrior or a scholar. He was a treasurer of memory. He reminded me where we came from, and what we had to protect, to make it endure.

If Balin believed, then there had to be some hidden justice, there had to be a light somewhere.

"What are you doing here?"

The Man's voice had risen behind me and I flinched – I had rested my forehead against Balin's chest and he had resumed stroking my hair.

"You should be working, shouldn't you?"

Balin kept my head close to him and his hand never left my face.

"He is unwell...", he said softly, his brown eyes kind as usual as he looked up to the tall, bulky Man.

"And what, pray, is wrong with that lad? He seemed capable enough this morning, or so you said..."

Accusation showed in his voice, and I lifted my head then. I must indeed have looked wretched, my face bloodless and drawn, and my eyes hollow – the Man drew back, suddenly alarmed.

"Oi, I don't want anyone to give up the ghost on my grounds! If he's ill, you take him away with you, and off my lands!

\- He is not ill", Balin said, still holding me. "He is starved. He has not eaten for days. He is not even thirteen, if we would count his summers as you do. Just give him his share of what we have agreed now, and you will see him work."

I should have felt ashamed, to hear Balin beg that Man for my own food, to hear him ask for a meal for me while so many starved. But I could not muster the strength to feel any shame. I did not say a word, I just looked at the Man and somehow it softened him.

"Thirteen, eh? One never knows, with that beard of yours – no offence meant..."

He raised his hands and then he left, leaving me alone with Balin. I rested my face against him once more – my head was spinning with exhaustion and hunger, and I could not sit upright anymore.

"There you go. Don't bother about our agreement, I would have thrown it to the pigs anyway."

It certainly was not the most gracious way of offering food, but it was a mighty gift to us. The plate was full, and the porridge in it was warm. Balin and I, we both shared it, and the other Dwarves that had come with us got some too.

I forbade myself to think about the Dwarflings, about Dís and Frerin, suddenly understanding that there was no other way – I had to eat in order to keep able to bring back food. It felt strange to have something hot in my stomach again, it made me want to lie down and sleep, overwhelmed by that delightful sensation. But I had already rested enough.

"There is a balance, Thorin", Balin whispered as he helped me to get up and to walk towards the forge again. "We just have to keep believing."

And somehow we managed it. To keep some hope, to be able to keep moving. We dragged ourselves along those white, icy hills, a long, endless procession, tiny dark spots in the snow, so easily erased...

Mounting the tents, sitting down, swallowing something, keeping warm. Trying to sleep, holding Dís against me, Dís and Svali who was still smiling at me when I came back – Svali that helped me not to think about Frerin who was still with my father, who was not even talking to me anymore, so silent and sad.

And one day Balin, Nár and Dagur called me out of the tent once more. Their faces were grave, and I dreaded what they would tell me, but for once they had no bad news.

"We are close to the Iron Hills, lad. It's just one more week to go", Balin said, and for the first time in days my eyes lightened up. "But there are no villages on that road. There is no food, there is nothing but barren land.

\- We have to get some help.", Nár added. "Grór and Náin probably guessed we are coming, but they have no idea where we are. We have to reach them quickly, so that they can meet us on the road with some supplies.

\- How so?", I whispered – it seemed impossible, seven days of walking through the snow without any food, it would be the death of everyone.

"Dagur and me, we have to go. We are strong, we are fast, and I know the way, I have been born there. If we don't stop, we will reach them within two days.

\- No..."

My voice was desperate, and I clung to Balin's arm, with all my might, my fingers digging deep into his cloth.

"Don't go, Balin. Don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please..."

He laid one hand upon my fingers and with the other, he brushed my face, laying his palm upon my cheek.

"I have to, lad. It is the only way. You have to keep on walking. Nár will help you, and Itô also, as will the rest of the warriors. The only thing you have to do, Thorin, is to keep moving. One step after the other, heading straight north. And you will barely notice we left, only three days and we will join you again. We will bring help, and food. I promise...

\- No, Balin, please...

\- I promise, Thorin. I promise I will come back to you. Have I ever lied to you, lad? Have I ever broken my word?"

He was looking at me, his brown eyes so bright, and I had to swallow thickly before I was finally able to answer.

"No.

\- Then trust me, lad. Let me go."

I looked down – I could not face him anymore, if I kept looking at him I would thrust myself into his arms, I would cling to his chest so as to keep him with me, chaining him to me and dooming us.

A single, hot tear fell on the back of his hand, the hand that was still holding mine, and I heard myself whisper:

"Go, then.

\- Mahal bless you...", Balin whispered, and then I turned from him.

I turned and walked away, because I could not bear to see him go, and yet he had to. I turned my back on the tents, I walked to the other edge of the camp, pressing my palms against my eyes, wiping my tears away – I was alone, I could have let them flow but it would not do to weep, I could not afford to weep, I had promised, one step after another, heading straight north.

I don't know how long I stood there, trying to fight back my grief and my fear. But when I turned I saw Itô watching me. She had crossed the whole camp to find me, and the hem of her robes were wet with flakes, curling along her boots – Itô never dressed like a Dwarf and kept to her robes, her silken belt wrapped tight around her waist and her snow-white hair tied up with stern, carefully woven braids.

I faced the old _batshûna_ , my eyes still red – she seemed to have risen from the snow, everything about her seemed so spotless, so neat, and yet she had a hard and ruthless soul, just like the winter.

Shame invaded me as I stood before her – I had not taken off my clothes for days, because I only had that one tunic and because it was so cold. I would only wash my face and my arms with handfuls of snow, trying to keep my body-heat in the icy wind – Mahal knows what Itô must think of me, to see me like this when I was supposed to lead on...

But Itô bowed. Of all the things she could have done, that proud Dwarrowdam bowed.

"Where to now, _ubnadê_?"

Leader. She was calling me her leader. Her black gaze searched for mine, and I could see it – the same love, the same faith that I always found in Balin's, and in Dís. That used to be also in Frerin's.

She looked at me and we both knew. She might have bowed, but she had raised me from the depth, had given me the strength and will to deserve that gaze once more.

I stepped up to her, I wanted to bow myself, I owed it to her, but she held a hand against my chest, preventing me to move.

"No, _ubnadê_. Not you. You lead, we follow. And I am behind you, always. _Mahizli_."

 _Remember_.

The same sacred word that was carved into the silver of the only ring I was wearing – the ring that had been given to me when I had taken my oath to defend Erebor, a simple silver ring enclosing a small, dark onyx gem. The only heirloom that I still had.

I nodded, wordlessly, and then we left.

Hours after Balin and Dagur, we were heading again through the snow – and Mahal, I still shudder when I think about these three, last, desperate days.

This time we did not stop to try to find some work, we just walked on and on, and I was urging everyone forward. No fires were lit – there was no wood and no dry place. We unfolded the tents and just tried to keep warm, sitting close to each other.

The second night it happened. I had dreaded it, I had tried to steel my soul against it, but I had seen the first signs. Svali was not smiling anymore, in fact he was not making a sound. I was carrying him, the same way I had carried him when we had left Erebor, but this time there were no cheerful noises coming from his mouth, because my little chestnut was fading away.

I had tried to feed him, I had chewed some wheat and tried to coax it into his mouth, but as the night grew darker I could see his breathing become more and more difficult, while his little heart was racing against mine.

I was holding him so close. I had taken off my chainmail, I did not want him to feel anything hard or cold in his slumber. I was holding him against my bare chest, and I had pulled my tunic on both of us. Dís had wrapped her arms around my waist, trying to keep his back warm, and she had fallen asleep on my lap.

My fingers brushed his brown, soft curls – he was still a baby. He had never spoken a word. He had only ever smiled.

"Mahal, have pity...", I whispered, so low that no one heard me. "Mahal, be merciful... Please save him..."

And Mahal did. As dawn broke, I suddenly felt it. A soft, warm, breath, brushing the skin of my neck.

And then nothing.

The Dwarfling I was holding against me was no more. Mahal had saved him from hunger and cold, but not in the way I had prayed for, not in the way it should have been.

Svali's body was still warm, so soft and relaxed against mine, but he was dead. The light in his gaze had passed, and his eyelids were closed, his dark lashes drawing soft shadows on his hollow cheeks.

"Oh Mahal..."

My own moan was low, almost like a prayer – I could not let Dís witness that, she was weak herself, she did not say so, but I had seen it in her hollow gaze as she had embraced me before falling asleep...

Itô saw me move. She saw me free myself from Dís' embrace, gently, trying not to wake her. She saw me advance towards the corner where I had laid my axe, and then leave the tent.

I was still holding Svali against me, and as I looked upon the hard, icy ground, I thought how easy it would be, if my heart could be that cold and indifferent – but it was not.

Silent, tearless sobs shook my frame as I tried to make that frozen ground open up – the earth was still far beyond my reach, and yet I had to lay Svali down somewhere, I could not just leave his small body to the crows...

I tried to part the icy ground, but I failed – I was so weak myself, and I soon fell down on my knees, sobbing silently, unable to summon tears. They stayed inside, soundless, while desperate sobs made my whole body quiver.

And suddenly I felt a warm hand upon my shoulder. I looked up – and it was Thráin who gazed at me. Thráin who must have heard my frantic attempts to make the snow shift – Thráin who knew so well what it meant to dig a grave.

I do not know if he recognized me. I cannot vow that he remembered who I was. But there was pity in his gaze, and sadness – a sadness where I could indeed recognize him.

My father took my axe and started ploughing. He was strong and able, the snow did not resist him, and soon enough he managed to reach the earth, carefully carving a small tomb for Svali.

He touched my shoulder once more when it was done – I was still standing in the snow, and Svali's body was no longer warm and soft against mine. My father brushed back one of my braids and nodded, his gaze still sad.

And together, we laid Svali down into the ground. Earth and snow covered him, and once it was done I searched for a stone – but there was none. The land was barren, there was no rock to mark his tomb.

Thráin saw my breath turn shallow, he saw anguish invade my gaze, and somehow he understood. He fetched more snow, piling it on Svali's tomb so as to form a white block, almost like a marble stele. And I watched him carve the sacred runes into the snow – he still knew how to shape them, he was so skilled, he knew so much about death...

And when he finished he looked at me. A guarded, unsure look, just like a child gazing up to an elder parent – was it right? Had he done the right thing? Was I better now?

I was not. There was no way I would feel better, but what he had done seemed right. A white marble tomb for Svali. No crows for my chestnut. I nodded, I touched his arm, and then I went back to the tent. Back to Dís who was still breathing, thank Mahal.

I think that is when I started to lose focus. I do not remember the next two days, not really. I do remember my anguish when I realized that my father was carrying Frerin as he walked, because my little brother was too weak to manage his own small weight.

I remember Itô's black, steady gaze, every time I wavered, and her firm grasp on my arm when I would stop, unable to remember what I was doing here, why I stumbled, why everything was white and dazzling...

And I remember the terrible fear that turned my heart to ice when I saw Dís fall down on the ground, with a soft, almost silent sound. She fell like a leaf, and the gems of her tiara caught the light the sun was casting on the snow, like stars in the raven-black night of her hair.

"Don't... don't give up, Dís", I whispered, kneeling next to her.

I wrapped my arms around her small body, I pulled her up and hoisted her on my hip, just like that dark, other desolate day where we had faced the Dragon together.

"Stay close. You are safe. I will carry you."

She circled my neck with her arms, she still had enough strength to do so, and I pressed her body against mine, determined to hold her close, come what may.

It was the afternoon of the third day, and I had forgotten everything except Dís. I was stumbling on, wading through the snow, heading north, step after step...

And I fell. Several times, my knees hitting the cold ground.

"Leave me, Thorin..."

She had whispered those words against me and I let out a moan, holding her even closer.

"Leave me, _marlel_. You don't have the strength. I am too heavy."

I rose once more, trying not to stagger, hoisting her up again.

"You are lighter than those flakes", I whispered. "You are keeping me warm. I will never leave you. You made me promise not to run away from you. _Mahizli. Mahizli, mamarlûna_."

I was shaking with exhaustion when they finally came – I do not even remember seeing them arrive, or hearing them. I was only aware of the snow, and of my sister.

But the Dwarves of the Iron Hills had come, mounted on huge, sturdy boars. Dozens of them, loaded with food – just as Balin had promised.

Balin was not there – they had not let him come back to us, for both Dagur and him were exhausted, their strength almost spent by their hurried journey.

And neither were Dwalin, or Dáin – this was no place for Dwarflings, and Dwarflings my cousins still were.

Náin was there, he must have been there, but I do not remember him. I only remember being given my own share of food – bread and some dried meat. I remember chewing it and then putting some into Dís' mouth, while my father was doing the same for Frerin.

I don't remember eating myself – but I did. I must have, because suddenly I had enough strength to stand again.

"Can you walk, lad?"

The Dwarf that had addressed me did not know who I was. How could he – I had nothing left of the Prince in me, I was weak and cold and dirty, and just as wasted as everybody else.

I nodded, and the Dwarf had a grunt.

"Good. We are taking the weakest and the wounded with us. The rest will have to keep walking."

I nodded again, and Dís stirred in my arms, suddenly understanding what was going to happen.

"No... _marlel_... Tell him you have to... Tell him you cannot..."

But she was weak and feverish – she did not manage to finish her sentence, and she never spoke my name, so the Dwarf never knew. I drew a deep breath, and then I did what I had seen my father do seconds ago. I wrapped my arms around Dís' waist and lifted her to place her in front of him, right before Frerin.

She cried, she struggled, and I could hear her tiny voice as the Dwarf urged his mount on:

"You promised..."

I had. But I wanted her sheltered, as soon as possible. I wanted her out of this white nightmare. And I could walk, now that I had eaten, could I not?

We were indeed advancing faster, without the wounded, but my pace was slowing down. My feet struggled through the snow, and every step seemed harder. There was a dull pain in my chest that hurt each time I took a deep breath, and I kept seeing dark spots on the snow.

I was one of the last in our company, after leading for so many days. The others were walking and following the boars' traces, while I was trying to put one foot in front of the other.

When I fell once more, I did not manage to get up. There was no Dís to warm me up, to urge me on, and I was feeling sick. I threw up the scarce bites I had swallowed and watched the snow soak it up, just as it had soaked up everything else.

And then I felt arms around me. Dark locks fell upon my chest and I recognized this scent, this hard grip under my armpits, hoisting me up, holding me against him. Carrying me.

"' _Adad_...", I whispered, and my voice was hoarse.

Thráin did not answer, he just marched on, his steps broad and steady. He was fast, he was strong, and soon enough I could feel sleep invade me – I was so weak, so tired...

I do not remember that last night on the road, I just remember my father's warmth and the unwavering embrace of his arms around me. He carried me until we reached the Iron Hills, until there were voices and sounds around us, until despite my weakness I stirred in his arms, trying to understand how this miracle was possible.

He put me on the ground then – he was worn out too, famished and confused, overwhelmed by the fact of entering a Mountain again, and we both sat, I leaning against Thráin's chest and Thráin wrapping his arms around my waist, shaking with exhaustion.

"Thorin!"

I knew that voice – I knew that warmth, that strength, I had yearned for it for weeks, it was the only thing that could still bring me back on my feet.

"Dwalin...", I whispered, and seconds after I was in my cousin's arms.

There were tears in Dwalin's eyes as he held me, his warm hands upon my shoulders – he was so tall, so strong, and I was feeling so numb and cold.

"They would not let me come and fetch you... I have tried – why in Mahal's name did you linger behind?"

He crushed me against his broad chest – he was so warm, so steady, I clung to him, pressing my head against his shoulder. I was shivering – such an unlikely thing for a Dwarf, but I had no resistance left, and when Dwalin felt that he took off his fur coat and wrapped it around me.

"I have thought of you every day – every day since we heard..."

His voice broke and I could not tell him that I had felt the same, exactly the same, that I had missed him so much that it had hurt, that it still made my chest hurt, and that knowing that he was there, that I had reached him weakened everything in me.

He caught me when I fell and steadied me against him, his brown eyes searching mine.

"You are so cold, you must be so hungry... What am I thinking of, keeping you in that icy hall – come, let us find some food and a blanket for you..."

I do not know how I managed to follow him. I guess I simply could not bear to be parted from him – I needed him, I needed him so much, I was so cold and he was so warm, he knew what had to be done, he did not waver, he was so strong...

He made me sit close to a fire – I had no idea where I was, I did not even manage to look around me, my gaze was fixed upon Dwalin's face, searching for Dwalin's eyes.

"Dís... Frerin...", I whispered when he placed a warm bowl between my hands.

"Now don't you worry. They are fine. They reached us yesterday – that fool who brought them did not know where to look when he understood who they were... Why didn't you tell him? Why didn't you come with them?

\- I had to..."

A broad shiver shook my frame, despite the fur coat, despite the fire, and Dwalin steadied me once more, his hands upon my shoulders.

"Well, never mind. You are here now. Eat. You look like a ghost, no wonder he did not recognize you, when I think about it."

He grinned at me – I knew he was trying to cheer me up, I knew I was frightening him, with my hollow gaze and my thin, worn-out features. I dipped my spoon into whatever was in my plate, I did not even look but I tried to obey him, I tried to eat.

I swallowed a few mouthfuls but suddenly I had to think of the Dwarflings, of all the meals I had not been able to bring to them, and I dropped my spoon while my hand fell at my side.

"Eat...", Dwalin urged me on, gently, but I could not.

It felt wrong, the few bites I had swallowed, lying heavy on my stomach. I laid down the bowl, slowly – I could not bear to think I was wasting that food, but it seemed my stomach had shrunk to the size of a chestnut.

 _A chestnut._

I bent forward, suddenly, I barely had the time to turn away from Dwalin. My stomach heaved, I threw up once more, and then I tried to take deep breaths.

Seconds later I was vomiting again, deep, racking waves shaking my entire body. Dwalin brushed my shoulder, gently, and held me when I tried to get up.

"I am... I am fine...", I whispered, staggering in his arms.

He shook his head, and held me tighter. And when I had to bend again and resumed retching, throwing up every remaining drop that was left in my body, he just held me.

"I am fine...", I whispered, looking at the mess at my feet, feeling tears sting my eyes – I was shaking and my knees would not hold me anymore.

He caught me when I fell, I was feeling so sick and weak, my teeth were chattering and the retching just would not stop. Nothing came up, yet I was still doubled up on the floor. My skin was clammy, my face was hot and the rest of my body icy, but I shook my head when Dwalin talked of fetching help – I could not bear to think he would leave me, everybody had left me, even Balin...

"No... Please... I will be fine... I feel better..."

I had reached for his hand, and I clasped it when the next wave hit. This time I had something to throw up, and we both stared at the red liquid that had just splashed on the ground.

Blood. I was vomiting blood.

Dwalin said I just lost focus afterwards. My body tensed, and then went completely limp in his arms. I was still looking at him, still breathing, but I was not there anymore.

I do not remember anything of that. I recall voices, a dull pain in my stomach and arms around my body, carrying me away, but I do not know what they did with me.

The retching had stopped, replaced by a terrible heat in my body, and after that my memory is clouded, and the images I keep are distorted, because I lay for two days in a raging fever, unable to move or to eat, barely able to drink.

I remember Óin's face, his gentle pressure on my arm pushing me back on my bed as I struggled to sit up. I remember a terrible heat running through my skin, and they told me later that I had constantly repeated one desperate word, as the fever was taking hold of my body, drenching it in sweat.

 _Dragon_.

I remember hands I did not recognize at first, pushing back my soaked hair and placing something cool on my forehead. It was Balin, and I must have been aware of him somehow, because I recall some of my ravings while looking at him. I had said something terrible, something that had made my father angry and my mother sad, and I could not go home...

 _I cannot go home_.

I told him so earnestly, as he bent upon me, and his kind eyes clouded with grief as he wiped my forehead.

"Do not worry, lad. Please, laddie, stop fretting. Just rest."

I can still hear his words, and they must have lulled me to sleep, because after that I dreamt. My body was burning, and I was struggling to breathe, but that dream was a cold, silent one.

 _I was standing close to Svali's tomb once more – I could recognize the sacred runes my father had carved upon the snow, and the barren lands around me._

 _But something was different, something was strange. I was holding Svali against my chest, and he was warm and alive, not lying under earth and snow anymore. I pulled away slightly, gazing at him, my heart racing, and I saw him smile, I saw the light in his eyes and the dimples in his cheeks._

" _Svali...", I whispered, and I felt the small kick of his heels against my chest as he reacted to his name._

 _I dragged him against me, I could not believe he was alive, unharmed and happy, and suddenly I saw the snow-covered hills expand, turning to an even, white landscape that looked like dazzling rocks. They ended only some steps ahead of me, after that there was a chasm, a depth I could not fathom, and as I gazed at it, wondering where I was, I saw a bridge form in front of my eyes._

 _A beautiful, white, carved bridge, chiselled into precious marble – or so it would seem, maybe it was_ míthril _, it was so dazzling, I hardly knew what I was seeing, and I could not see where that bridge ended._

 _Svali beamed and laughed against me, turning his face towards the light, and I took a step, approaching the bridge slowly – since it seemed to be what he wanted._

" _Thorin..."_

 _I could hear a firm, steady voice behind me, and when I turned I saw Itô, just like that morning where she had seemed to rise from the snow. Her old, proud face was looking at me and it seemed urgent, there was a command in her gaze that had not been there when she had faced me..._

" _Let me take the boy. Let me go there."_

 _She advanced towards me and I looked at her, not quite alarmed, but somehow puzzled._

" _Can't we both go there?", I asked, still holding Svali, and Itô reached me, putting her palm upon my arm._

" _We can. But I do not think you should, Thorin. Not now. Don't go there. Let me take him."_

 _I wavered, but I had always respected her. She had been my rock and my shield, and I would never forget what I owed her._

" _Where are you going?", I asked, as she took Svali from my arms and slowly bent her head to touch my forehead with hers._

" _Don't you know?", she replied, and I shook my head._

 _She smiled then, the same playful smile she had had in that tent, the day the Dragon came, that evening where we had all laughed despite our sadness and our despair._

" _Then you are not ready yet, lad. And I am glad. Don't follow us. You go that way."_

 _She made a vague move, signalling something behind me, and then she bowed, once more, taking Svali with her as she reached the edge of the rocks._

" _I am ready...", she whispered, and as she stepped up to the bridge I saw her vanish as the white marble faded away._

 _I was left standing in the snow, alone. There was no more tomb at my feet, there was only a vast, white landscape, stretching around me, and I did not know where to go._

 _Behind me. She had showed something behind me. I turned, and it was dark, it was cold – the path she had signalled me as being my own. But I turned. And as I did so I suddenly felt hot, I suddenly felt my body again, the heat of my skin, the pounding beats of my heart, the sweat that was drenching my chest..._

 _I was leaving the snow. I was leaving the snow for heat and fire._

When I opened my eyes I was lying down in what still seemed snow to me. It was white, it was soft, it was wrapped around my legs and chest and I had sunken deep into it.

But it was not cold, not really, and when I tried to brush the snowflakes away my fingers met something smooth.

No flakes.

A hand touched mine and I tried to turn towards the person that was sitting next to me. My head hurt, there was pain in my chest and in my entire body, and it was difficult to focus, but I tried.

The hand was squeezing mine, urging me to try.

I turned my face and there he was. I knew this brown, warm, gaze, I knew those bushy eyebrows and the rough grasp of his fingers.

"Thorin, do you know who I am?"

My eyes fell shut for a second and he tightened his grip around me.

"Thorin, stay with me. Just answer."

I shuddered and opened my eyes once more, feeling sweat trickle down my spine, drenching my forehead – it was such an effort, such an effort to keep looking at him.

"Dwalin...", I whispered, and I heard him let out a deep breath.

"Do you know where you are?"

He was brushing the back of my hand, he was not letting me close my eyes again, he still would ask and keep me with him.

"I am... trying to... reach you..."

I had breathed out my answer, anxiously looking at him – I was unsure of where I was, one moment it seemed like a bed with Dwalin at my side, and the other I still felt buried in the snow, only facing his shadow.

"No, Thorin, listen. You have reached me. You are safe. You can do it – you can say that you are safe, you can say where you are."

He was urging me on – why was it so important, I did not really want to focus, I wanted to go back to that strange white dream...

"Thorin..."

I shuddered again, trying to make my brain function again – if Dwalin was there, if he was really there, surely I must be...

" _Urâd Zirnul_..."

I had whispered the Khuzdûl words for the Iron Hills with my last strength, and Dwalin squeezed my hand. I was still looking at him and saw him shake his head with the ghost of a smile.

"Playing high-born once more, Thorin? How many times do I have to tell you – it's _Zirinhanâd_. _Zirinhanâd_ for any proper Dwarf but you."

It was an old joke between us – there were some differences in Khuzdûl dialects and we were not always using the same words. He would mock me, pronouncing what I had said in a high-pitched voice, and I would laugh, and then twist my face while growling his own words, trying to sound as rough as possible.

Now I definitely could not be dreaming about that, and though I tried to smile, the only sound that escaped my throat was a small, choked gasp. My hand moved under his, and I grasped one of his fingers, holding it as tightly as I could, knowing that I had reached him.

I had reached him.

He made me sit afterwards, he held me against him and patiently fed me, lifting spoon after spoon to my lips – it was just a light broth, but it was warm and I was thirsty.

"Honestly, it just tastes like water...", he growled, having tried one spoonful himself. "I wonder what Óin was thinking...

\- It is good...", I whispered. "It is enough..."

I was still feverish, and he saw it. He saw it when he noticed that I kept looking at the blankets uneasily – they reminded me too much of snow, of cold, of terrible struggles I did not want to recall.

He reached for his fur coat then – he simply pulled the blankets of the bed and thrust them on the ground. And then he dragged me against him, he made me wrap my arms around him and rest my head on his chest. He brushed my hair aside – it was damp and tangled, hanging loose on my shoulders, and I was shivering, because the sweat on my skin was cooling down rapidly.

He drew my body against his and just wrapped us both in his fur coat. I could feel the heat that was radiating from him – he was so strong, so alive, I could warm myself against him, I could rely upon him, I could rest.

The gentle drumming of his heartbeats carried me to sleep. Soft, yet strong and steady, just as Dwalin was himself.

I remember that sound, as I feel the snow's cold kiss against my chest, and am aware of my own heartbeats, turning the ice scarlet under me. My heart is racing, trying to send some blood into my numb and feeble limbs, and I wonder why it struggles so, like a frightened little bird.

Because I am not afraid, not anymore. I see my breath spin in the cold air before me, and I realise it was not fear I felt when I used to look at falling snowflakes and frozen landscapes.

It was pain and unspeakable sadness.

Because that winter, I nearly lost everything and yet Dwalin's arms were around me, his heart beating against mine. The dread of cold and death had receded, as I had fallen asleep against him. There had been hope, even though I was too numb and tired to feel it back then.

And it was a treasure I was not aware of, until it was – cruelly and mercilessly – taken from me. Until snow could only remind me of what I had feared and what I had lost.

And yet... there is beauty in this dazzling silence, something soothing in its cold embrace. Not hope, maybe, not anymore. But a promise of rest, at last, here at the very end, where soft flakes fall on my face and my breath spins in the cold air.


End file.
